LIBRARY 

of  G»ta«ni» 

IRV4NE 


Lying  Prophet^ 

A   Novel 

By 

EDEN   PHILLPOTTS 


Author  of    "Children  of  the  Mist"     "Some 
Everyday    Folks"    "The  End  of  a  Life"   etc. 


"  'Tis  like  this:  your  man  did  take  plain  Nature  for  God,  an'  he 
did  talk  fulishness  'bout  finding  Him  in  the  scent  o'  flowers,  the 
hum  o'  bees  an'  sichlike.  Mayhap  Nature  is  a  gude  working  God 
for  a  selfish  man  but  she  ed'n  wan  for  a  maid,  as  you  knaws  by 
now.  Then  your  faither — his  God  do  sit  everlastingly  alongside 
hell-mouth,  an'  do  laugh  an'  girn  to  see  all  the  world  a  walkin' 
in,  same  as  the  beasts  walked  in  the  Ark.  Theer's  another  pick- 
sher  of  a  God  for  'e;  but  mark  this,  gal,  they  be  lying  prophets 
— lying  prophets  both!" — Book  II.,  Chapter  XL 


JBeto  pork 

Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 
Publishers 


PS, 


JteferwZ  •MwrcUn?  tn  Act  of  Congrttt  in  th»  wwr  1896,  6y 

PETER  PESELOy  COLLIER 
lit  PM  UjbW  4f  '*«  Librarian  o/  Congrtu  at   Washington, 


LYING  PROPHETS 


BOOK  ONE 

ART 

CHAPTER  ONE 

NEWLYN 

AWAY  beyond  the  village  stands  a  white  cot- 
tage with  the  sea  lapping  at  low  cliffs  beneath 
it.  Plum  and  apple  orchards  slope  upward  be- 
hind this  building,  and  already,  upon  the  former 
trees,  there  trembles  a  snowy  gauze  where  blos- 
som buds  are  breaking.  Higher  yet,  dark 
plowed  fields,  with  hedges  whereon  grow 
straight  elms,  cover  the  undulations  of  a 
great  hill  even  to  its  windy  crest,  and  be- 
low, at  the  water  line,  lies  Newlyn — a  village 
of  gray  stone  and  blue,  with  slate  roofs  now 
shining  silver-bright  under  morning  sunlight 
and  easterly  wind.  Smoke  softens  every  out- 
line; red-brick  walls  and  tanned  sails  bring 
warmth  and  color  through  the  blue  vapor  of 
many  chimneys;  a  sun-flash  glitters  at  this 
point  and  that,  denoting  here  a  conservatory, 
there  a  studio.  Enter  this  hive  and  you  shall 
find  a  network  of  narrow  stone  streets ;  a  flutter 

(3) 


*  LYING    PROPHETS 

of  flannel  underwear,  or  blue  stockings,  and 
tawny  garments  drying  upon  lines;  little  win- 
dows, some  with  rows  of  oranges  and  ginger- 
beer  bottles  in  them;  little  shops;  little  doors, 
at  which  cluster  little  children  and  many  cats, 
the  latter  mostly  tortoise-shell  and  white.  In- 
fants watch  their  elders  playing  marbles  in  the 
roadway,  and  the  cats  stretch  lazy  bodies  on 
the  mats,  made  of  old  fishing-net,  which  lie  at 
every  cottage  door.  Newlyn  stands  on  slight 

ations  above  the  sea  level,  and  at  one  point 
the  road  bends  downward,  breaks  and  fringes 
the  tide,  leading  among  broken  iron,  rusty  an- 
chors, and  dismantled  fishing-boats,  past  an 
ancient  buoy  whose  sides  now  serve  the  pur- 
poses of  advertisement  and  tell  of  prayer-meet- 
ings, cheap  tea,  and  so  forth.  Hard  by,  the 
might}'  blocks  of  the  old  breakwater  stand,  their 
fabric  dating  from  the  reign  of  James  I.,  and 
taking  the  place  of  one  still  older.  But  the  old 
breakwater  is  no  more  than  a  rialto  for  ancient 

ips  now;  and  far  beyond  it  new  piers  stretch 
encircling  arms  of  granite  round  a  new  harbor, 
southward  of  which  the  lighthouse  stands  and 
winks  his  sleepless  golden  eye  from  dusk  to 
dawn.  Within  this  harbor,  when  the  fishing 
fleet  is  at  home,  lie  jungles  of  stout  masts,  row 
upon  row,  with  here  and  there  a  sail,  carrying 
on  the  color  of  the  plowed  fields  above  the  vil- 
lage, and  elsewhere,  scraps  <>f  flaming  limiting 
flashing  like  flowers  in  a  reed  1» ••<!  Behind  the 
masts,  along  the  barbican,  tin-  o>ttap 
close  and  thick,  then  clamber  and  straggle  up 


LYING   PROPHETS  5 

the  acclivities  behind,  decreasing  in  their  num- 
bers as  they  ascend.  Smoke  trails  inland  on  the 
wind — black  as  a  thin  crepe  veil,  from  the  fun- 
nel of  a  coal  "tramp"  about  to  leave  the  harbor, 
blue  from  the  dry  wood  burning  on  a  hundred 
cottage  hearths.  A  smell  of  fish — where  great 
split  pollocks  hang  drying  in  the  sun — of  tar 
and  tan  and  twine — where  nets  and  cordage  lie 
spread  upon  low  walls  and  open  spaces — gives 
to  Newlyn  an  odor  all  its  own;  but  aloft,  above 
the  village  air,  spring  is  dancing,  sweet-scented, 
light-footed  in  the  hedgerows,  through  the  woods 
and  on  the  wild  moors  which  stretch  inland 
away.  There  the  gold  of  the  gorse  flames  in 
many  a  sudden  sheet  and  splash  over  the  wastes 
whereon  last  year's  ling-bloom,  all  sere  and 
gray,  makes  a  sad-colored  world.  But  the  sea- 
son's change  is  coming  fast.  Celandines  twinkle 
everywhere,  and  primroses,  more  tardy  and  more 
coy,  already  open  wondering  eyes.  The  sea  lies 
smooth  with  a  surface  just  wind-kissed  and 
strewed  with  a  glory  of  sun-stars.  Away  to 
the  east,  at  a  point  from  which  brown  hills, 
dotted  with  white  dwellings,  tend  in  long  undu- 
lations to  the  cliffs  of  the  Lizard,  under  fair 
clouds  all  banked  and  sunny  white  against  the 
blue,  rises  St.  Michael's  Mount,  with  a  man's 
little  castle  capping  Nature's  gaunt  escarpments 
and  rugged  walls.  Between  Marazion  and  New- 
lyn  stretches  Mount's  Bay ;  while  a  mile  or  two 
of  flat  sea-front,  over  which,  like  a  string  of 
pearls,  roll  steam  clouds,  from  a  train,  bring  us 
to  Penzance.  Then — noting  centers  of  industry 


6  LYlrfG    PROPHETS 

when-  freezing  works  rise  and  smelting  of  ore 
occupies  many  men  (for  Newlyn  labors  at  the 
two  extremes  of  fire  and  ice) — we  :uv  l.ackin 
the  fishing  village  again  and  upon  tho  winding 
road  which  leads  therefrom,  first  to  Penlee  Point 
and  the  blue-stone  quarry,  anon  to  the  little 
hamlet  of  Mousehole  beyond. 

Beside  this  road  lay  our  white  cottage,  with 
the  sunshine  lighting  up  a  piece  of  new  golden 
thatch  let  into  the  old  gray,  and  the  plum-trees 
behind  it  bursting  into  new-born  foam  of  flow- 
ers. Just  outside  it,  above  the  low  cliff,  stood 
two  men  looking  down  into  the  water,  seen  dark 
green  below  through  a  tangle  of  brier  and  black- 
thorn and  emerald  foliage  of  budding  elder.  The 
sea  served  base  uses  here,  for  the  dust  and  dirt 
of  many  a  cottage  was  daily  cast  into  the  lap  of 
the  great  scavenger  who  carried  all  away.  The 
low  cliffs  were  indeed  spattered  with  filth,  and 
the  coltsfoot,  already  opening  yellow  blossoms 
below,  found  itself  rudely  saluted  with  cinders 
and  potato-peelings,  fishes'  entrails,  and  such- 
like unlovely  matter. 

The  men  were  watching  a  white  fleet  of  bird 
boats  paddling  on  the  sea,  hurrying  this  way 
and  that,  struggling — with  many  a  plunge  and 
flutter  and  plaintive  cry— for  the  food  a  retreat- 
ing tide  was  bearing  from  the  shore. 

"  *White  spirits  and  gray,'  I  call  them,"  said 
the  younger  of  the  two  spectators.  "The  gulls 
fascinate  me  always.  They  are  beautiful  to  see 
and  hear  and  paint.  Swimming  there,  and 
wheeling  between  the  seas  in  rough  weather, 


LYING   PROPHETS 

or  hanging  almost  motionless  in  midair  with 
their  heads  turning  first  this  way,  then  that, 
and  their  breasts  pressed  against  the  wind — 
why,  they  are  perfect  always,  the  little  winged 
gods  of  the  sea." 

"Gods  kissing  carrion,"  sneered  the  other. 
"Beautiful  enough,  no  doubt,  but  their  music 
holds  no  charm  for  me.  Nothing  is  quite  beau- 
tiful which  has  for  its  cause  something  ugly. 
Those  echoing  cries  down  there  are  the  expres- 
sion of  a  greedy  struggle,  no  more.  I  hate  your 
Newlyn  gulls.  They  are  ruined,  like  a  thou- 
sand other  wild  things,  by  civilization.  I  see 
them  scouring  the  fields  and  hopping  after  the 
plowman  like  upland  crows.  A  Cornish  sea- 
bird  should  fight  its  battle  with  the  sea  and 
find  its  home  in  the  heart  of  the  dizzy  cliffs, 
sharing  them  with  the  samphire.  But  your 
'white  spirits  and  gray'  behave  like  gutter-fed 
ducks." 

The  first  speaker  laughed  and  both  strolled 
upon  their  way.  They  were  artists,  but  while 
Edmund  Murdoch  dwelt  at  Newlyn  and  lived 
by  his  profession,  the  older  man,  John  Barren, 
was  merely  on  a  visit  to  the  place.  He  had 
come  down  for  change  and  with  no  particular 
intention  to  work.  Barron  was  wealthy  and 
wasted  rare  talents.  He  did  not  paint  much, 
and  the  few  who  knew  his  pictures  deplored  the 
fact  that  no  temporal  inducement  called  upon 
him  to  handle  his  brush  oftener.  A  few  ex- 
cused him  on  the  plea  of  his  health,  which  was 
at  all  times  indifferent,  but  he  never  excused 


8  LYING    PROPHETS 

himself.  It  ueeded  something  far  from  the 
beaten  track  to  inspire  him,  and  inspiration  was 
rare.  But  let  a  subject  once  grip  him  and  the 
artist's  life  centered  and  fastened  upon  it  until 
his  work  was  done.  He  sacrificed  everything 
at  such  a  time ;  he  slaved ;  labor  was  to  him  as 
a  debauch  to  the  drunkard,  and  he  wearied  body 
and  mind  and  counted  his  health  nothing  while 
the  frenzy  held  him.  Then,  his  picture  finished, 
at  the  cost  of  the  man's  whole  store  of  nervous 
energy  and  skill,  he  would  probably  paint  no 
more  for  many  months.  His  subject  was  al- 
ways some  transcript  from  nature,  wrought  out 
with  almost  brutal  vigor  and  disregard  of  every- 
thing but  truth.  His  looks  belied  his  work  curi- 
ously. A  small,  slight  man  he  was,  with  slop- 
ing shoulders  and  the  consumptive  build.  But 
the  breadth  of  his  head  above  the  ears  showed 
brain,  and  his  gray  eyes  spoke  a  strength  of 
purpose  upon  which  a  hard,  finely  -  modeled 
mouth  set  the  seal.  Once  he'  had  painted  in 
the  West  Indies:  a  picture  of  two  negresses 
bathing  at  Tobago.  Behind  them  hung  low 
tangle  of  cactus,  melo-cactus  and  \vhito-Uo6- 
somed  orchid;  while  on  the  tawny  rocks  glim- 
mered snowy  cotton  splashed  with  a  rriiii.-<>n 
turban ;  but  the  marvel  of  the  work  lay  in  the 
figures  and  the  refraction  of  their  brown  limlis 
seen  through  crystal-clear  water.  The  picture 
brought  reputation  to  a  man  who  cared  nothing 
for  it;  and  Barren's  "Bathing  Negresses" 
only  quoted  here  because  they  illustrate  his 
HUM  IK  H I  of  work.  He  had  painted  from  the 


LYING    PROPHETS  9 

»ea  in  a  boat  moored  fore  and  aft;  he  had  kept 
the  two  women  shivering  and  whining  in  the 
water  for  two  hours  at  a  time.  They  could  not 
indeed  refuse  the  gold  he  offered  for  their  ser- 
vices, but  one  never  lived  to  enjoy  the  money, 
for  her  prolonged  ablutions  in  the  cause  of  art 
killed  her  a  week  after  her  work  was  done. 

John  Barren  was  a  lonely  sybarite  with  a  real 
love  for  Nature  and  absolutely  primitive  instincts 
with  regard  to  his  fellow-creatures.  The  Land's 
End  had  disappointed  him ;  he  had  found  Nature 
neither  grand  nor  terrific  there,  but  sleepy  and 
tame  as  a  cat  after  a  full  meal.  Nor  did  he  de- 
rive any  pleasure  from  the  society  of  his  craft  at 
Newlyn.  He  hated  the  clatter  of  art  jargon,  he 
flouted  all  schools,  and  pointed  out  what  nobody 
doubts  now :  that  the  artists  of  the  Cornish  vil- 
lage in  reality  represented  nothing  but  a  com- 
munity of  fellow- workers,  all  actuated  indeed 
by  love  of  art,  bub  each  developing  his  own  bent 
without  thought  for  his  neighbor's  theory.  Bar- 
ron  indeed  made  some  enemies  before  he  had 
been  in  the  place  a  week,  and  the  greater  lights 
liked  him  none  the  better  for  vehemently  dis- 
claiming the  honor  when  they  told  him  he  was 
one  of  themselves.  "The  shape  of  a  brush  does 
not  make  men  paint  alike,"  he  said,  "else  we 
were  all  equal  and  should  only  differ  in  color. 
Some  of  you  can  no  more  paint  with  a  square 
brush  than  you  can  with  a  knife.  Some  of  you 
could  not  paint  though  your  palettes  were  set 
with  Nature's  own  sunset  colors.  And  others 
of  you,  if  you  had  a  rabbit's  scut  at  the  end  of 


10  LYING    PROPHETS 

a  hop-pole  and  the  gray  mud  f rom  ;t  rain  pud- 
dle, would  produce  work  worth  considering. 
You  are  a  community  of  painters — some  clever, 
some  hopeless— but  you  are  not  a  school,  and 
you  may  thank  God  for  it." 

John  Barren  was  rough  tonic,  but  the  fearless 
little  man  generally  found  an  audience  at  the 
end  of  the  day  in  this  studio  or  that.  The  truth 
of  much  that  he  said  appealed  to  the  lofty- 
minded  and  serious;  his  dry  cynicism,  savage 
dislike  of  civilization,  and  frank  affection  for 
Nature,  attracted  others.  He  hit  hard,  but  he 
never  resented  rough  knocks  in  return,  and  n<> 
man  had  seen  him  out  of  temper  with  anything 
but  mysticism  and  the  art  bred  therefrom.  Up  m 
the  whole,  however,  his  materialism  annoy  nl 
more  than  his  wit  amused. 

Upon  the  evening  which  followed  his  insult  to 
the  Newlyn  Lcull.--,  Barron,  with  Edmund  Mur- 
doch and  some  other  men,  was  talking  in  the 
studio  of  one  Brady,  known  to  fame  as  the 
"Wrecker,"  from  his  love  for  the  artistic  repre- 
sentation of  maritime  disaster.  Barron  liked  thi- 
man,  for  he  was  otitsjx)ken  and  held  vigorous 
views,  but  the  two  quarreled  freely. 

"Fate  was  a  fool  when  she  chucked  her  pres- 
ents into  the  lap  of  a  lazy  beggar  like  you,"  said 
Brady,  addressing  the  visitor.  "And  thrice  a 
fool,*'  he  added,  "to  assort  her  gifts  so  ill." 

"Fate  is  a  knave,  a  mad  thing  playing  at 
cat's  cradle  with  the  threads  of  our  wretHiril 
little  lives,"  answered  John  Barren,  "she  is  a 
coward — a  bully.  She  hits  the  hungry  below 


LYING   PROPHETS  11 

the  belt;  she  heaps  gold  into  the  lap  of  the  old 
man,  but  not  till  he  has  already  dug  his  own 
grave  to  come  at  it;  she  gives  health  to  those 
who  must  needs  waste  all  their  splendid  strength 
on  work;  and  wealth  to  worthless  beings  like 
myself  who  are  always  ailing  and  who  never 
spend  a  pound  with  wisdom.  Make  no  dark 
cryptic  mystery  of  Fate  when  you  paint  her. 
She  looks  to  me  like  a  mischievous  monkey  pok- 
ing sticks  into  an  ant-hill." 

"She's  a  woman,"  said  Murdoch. 

"She's  three,"  corrected  Brady;  "what  can 
you  expect  from  three  women  rolled  into 
one?" 

"Away  with  her!  Waste  no  incense  at  her 
shrine.  She'll  cut  the  thread  no  sooner  because 
you  turn  your  back  on  her.  Fling  overboard 
your  mythologies,  dead  and  alive,  arid  kneel  to 
Nature.  A  budding  spike  of  wild  hyacinth  is 
worth  all  the  gods  put  together.  Go  hand  in 
hand  with  Nature,  I  say.  Ask  nothing  from 
her;  walk  humbly;  be  well  content  if  she  lets 
you  but  turn  the  corner  of  one  page  none  else 
have  read.  That's  how  I  live.  My  life  is  not  a 
prayer  exactly — ' 

"I  should  say  not,"  interrupted  Brady. 

"But  a  hymn  of  praise — a  purely  impersonal 
existence,  lived  all  alone,  like  a  man  at  a  prison 
window.  This  carcass,  with  its  shaky  machinery 
and  defective  breathing  apparatus,  is  the  prison. 
I  look  out  of  the  window  till  the  walls  crumble 
away — " 

"And    then?"    asked   one    Paul    Tarrant,    a 


13  LYING    PROPHETS 

painter  who  prided  himself  on  being  a  Chris- 
tian as  well. 

"Then,  the  spark  which  I  call  myself,  goes 
back  to  Nature,  as  the  cloud  gives  the  rain- 
drop back  to  the  sea  from  whence  the  sun 
drew  it." 

"A  lie,  man!"  answered  the  other  hotly. 

"Perhaps.  It  matters  nothing.  God — if  there 
be  a  God — will  not  blame  me  for  making  a  mis- 
take. Meantime  I  live  like  the  rook  and  the 
thrush.  The}r  never  pray,  they  praise,  they 
sing  'grace  before  meat'  and  after  it,  as  Nature 
taught  them." 

"A  simple  child  of  Nature — beautiful  spec- 
tacle," said  Brady.  "But  I'm  sorry  all  the 
same,"  he  continued,  "that  you've  found  noth- 
ing in  Cornwall  to  keep  you  here  and  make  you 
do  some  work.  You  talk  an  awful  deal  of  rot, 
but  we  want  to  see  you  paint.  Isn't  there  any- 
thing or  anybody  worthy  of  you  here?" 

"As  a  matter  of  face,  I've  found  a  girl,"  said 
Barren. 

There  was  a  clamor  of  excitement  at  this  news, 
above  which  Brady's  bull  voice  roared  approval. 

"Proud  girl,  proud  parents,  proud  Newlyn!" 
he  l>ellowed. 

"The  mood  ripens  too,"  continued  Ban-on 
quietly.  "  'Sacrifice  all  the  world  to  mood'  is 
my  motto.  So  I  shall  stop  and  paint." 

A  moment  later  derisive  laughter  greeted 
Barren's  decision,  for  Murdoch,  in  answer  to  a 
hail  of  questions,  announced  the  subject  of  bin 
friend's  inspiration. 


LYING    PROPHETS  13 

"We  strolled  round  this  morning  and  saw 
Joan  Tregenza  in  an  iron  hoop  with  a  pail  of 
water  slung  at  either  hand." 

"So  your  picture  begins  and  ends  where  it  is, 
Barren,  my  friend;  in  your  imagination.  Did 
it  strike  you  when  you  first  saw  that  vision  of 
loveliness  in  dirty  drab  that  she  was  hardly 
the  girl  to  have  gone  unpainted  till  now?"  asked 
Brady. 

"The  possibility  of  previous  pictures  is  hardly 
likely  to  weigh  with  me.  Why,  I  would  paint 
a  drowned  sailor  if  the  subject  attracted  me, 
and  that  though  you  have  done  it, "  answered 
the  other,  nodding  toward  a  big  canvas  in  the 
corner,  where  Brady's  picture  for  the  year  ap- 
proached completion. 

"My  dear  chap,  we  all  worship  Joan — at  a 
distance.  She  is  not  to  be  painted.  Tears  and 
prayers  are  useless.  She  has  a  flinty  father — a 
fisherman,  who  looks  upon  painting  as  a  snare 
of  the  devil  and  sees  every  artist  already  wrig- 
gling on  the  trident  in  his  mind's  eye.  Joan 
has  also  a  lover,  who  would  rather  behold  her 
dead  than  on  canvas." 

"In  fact  these  Methodist  folk  take  us  to  be 
what  you  really  are, ' '  said  Brady  bluntly.  ' '  Old 
Tregenza  tars  us  every  one  with  the  same  brush. 
We  are  lost  sinners  all." 

"Well,  why  trouble  him?  A  fisherman  would 
have  his  business  on  the  sea.  Candidly,  I  must 
paint  her.  The  wish  grows  upon  me." 

"Even  money  you  don't  get  as  much  as  a 
sketch,"  said  Murdoch. 


14  LYING    PROPHETS 

"Have  any  of  you  tried  approaching  her  di- 
rectly, instead  of  her  relations?" 

"She's  as  shy  as  a  hawk,  man." 

"That  makes  me  the  more  hopeful.  You  fel- 
lows, with  your  Tarn  o'  Shanters  and  aggressive 
neckties  and  knickerbockers  and  calves,  would 
frighten  the  devil.  I'm  shy  myself.  If  she's 
natural,  then  we  shall  possibly  understand  each 
other." 

"I'll  bet  you  ten  to  one  in  pounds  you  won't 
have  your  wish,"  said  Brady. 

"No,  shan't  bet.  You're  all  so  certain.  Prob- 
ably I  shall  find  myself  beaten  like  the  rest  of 
you.  But  it's  worth  trying.  She's  a  pretty 
thing." 

"How  will  you  paint  her  if  you  get  the 
chance?" 

"Don't  know  yet.  I  should  like  to  paint  her 
in  a  wolf-skin  with  a  thread  of  wolf's  teeth 
round  her  neck  and  a  celt-headed  spear  in  her 
hand." 

"Art  will  be  a  loser  by  the  pending  repulse," 
declared  Brady.  "And  now,  as  my  whisky-bot- 
tle's empty  and  my  lamp  going  out,  you  ch;i|>^ 
can  follow  its  example  whenever  you  please." 

So  the  men  scattered  into  a  starry  night,  and 
went,  each  his  way,  through  the  streets  of  the 
sleeping  village. 


LYING   PROPHETS  15 


CHAPTER  TWO 

IN    A    HALO    OF    GOLD 

EDMUND  MURDOCH'S  studio  stood  high  on 
Newlyn  hill,  and  Barron  had  taken  comfortable 
rooms  in  a  little  lodging-house  close  beside  it. 
The  men  often  enjoyed  breakfast  in  each  other's 
company,  but  on  the  following  morning,  when 
Murdoch  strolled  over  to  see  his  friend,  he  found 
that  his  rooms  were  empty. 

Barron,  in  fact,  was  already  nearly  a  mile 
from  Newlyn,  and,  at  the  moment  when  the 
younger  artist  sought  him,  he  stood  upon  a  foot- 
path which  ran  through  plowed  fields  to  the  vil- 
lage of  Paul.  In  the  bottom  of  his  mind  ran  a 
current  of  thought  occupied  with  the  problem  of 
Joan  Tregenza,  but,  superficially,  he  was  con- 
cerned with  the  spring  world  in  which  he  walked. 
He  stood  where  Nature,  like  Artemis,  appeared  as 
a  mother  of  many  breasts.  Brown  and  solemn 
in  their  undulations,  they  rose  about  and  around 
him  to  the  sky-line,  where  the  land  cut  sharply 
against  a  pale  blue  heaven  from  which  tinkled 
the  music  of  larks.  He  watched  a  bird  wind 
upward  in  a  spiral  to  its  song  throne ;  he  noted 
the  young  wheat  brushing  the  earth  with  a  veil 
of  green;  he  dawdled  where  elms  stood,  their 


16  LYING    PROPHETS 

high  tope  thick  with  blossom;  and  he  delayed 
for  full  fifteen  minutes  to  see  the  felling  of  one 
giant  tree.  A  wedge-shaped  cut  had  been  made 
upon  the  side  where  the  great  elm  was  to  fall, 
and,  upon  the  other  side,  two  men  were  sawing 
through  the  trunk.  There  was  no  sound  but 
the  steady  hiss  of  steel  teeth  gnawing  inch  by 
inch  to  the  wine-red  heart  of  the  tree.  Sunshine 
glimmered  on  its  leafy  crown,  and  as  yet  distant 
branch  and  bough  knew  nothing  of  the  midgets 
and  Death  below. 

Barron  took  pleasure  in  seeing  the  great  god 
Change  at  work,  but  he  mourned  in  that  a  mas- 
terpiece, on  which  Nature  had  bestowed  half  ;i 
century  and  more  of  love,  must  now  vanish. 

"A  pity,'*  he  said,  while  the  executioners 
rested  a  few  moments  from  their  labors,  "a  pity 
to  cut  down  such  a  noble  t: 

One  woodman  laughed,  and  the  other — an  old 
rustic,  brown  and  bent — made  answer: 

"I  sez  'dang  the  tree!'  Us  doan't  take  no  joy 
in  thrawiu'  en,  mister.  I  be  bedoled  wi'  pain, 
an'  this  'ere  sawin's  just  food  for  rheumati/.. 
My  back's  that  bad.  But  Squire  must  'ave 
money,  an*  theer's  five  hundred  pounds'  value 
o'  ell  inn  comin'  down  'fore  us  done  wi'  it." 

The  saw  won  its  way ;  and  between  each  spell 
of  labor,  the  ancient  man  held  his  back  and 
grumbled. 

"Er'«  Billy  Jago,"  confided  the  second  laborer 
to  Barron,  when  his  companion  had  turned  aside 
to  get  Home  steel  wedges  and  a  sledge-hamim-i . 
"Er's  well-knawn  in  these  paarta — a  reg'lar 


LYING   PROPHETS  17 

cure.  Er  used  tu  work  up  Drift  wi'  Mister 
Chirgwin." 

Billy  added  two  wedges  to  those  already  ham- 
mered into  the  saw-cut,  then,  with  the  sledge, 
he  drove  them  home  and  finished  his  task.  The 
sorrowful  strokes  rang  hollow  and  mournful  over 
the  land,  sadder  to  Barren's  ear  than  fall  of 
earth-clod  on  coffin-lid.  And,  upon  the  sound, 
a  responsive  shiver  and  uneasy  tremor  ran 
through  trunk  and  bough  to  topmost  twig  of 
the  elm — a  sudden  sense,  as  it  seemed,  of  awful 
evil  and  ruin  undreamed  of,  but  now  imminent. 
Then  the  monster  staggered  and  the  midget 
struck  his  last  blow  and  removed  himself  and 
his  rheumatism.  Whereupon  began  that  mag- 
nificent descent.  Slowly,  with  infinitely  solemn 
sweep,  the  elm's  vast  height  swung  away  from 
its  place,  described  a  wide  aerial  arc,  and  so, 
with  the  jolting  crash  and  rattle  of  close  thun- 
der, roared  headlong  to  the  earth,  casting  up  a 
cloud  of  dust,  plowing  the  grass  with  splintered 
limbs,  then  lying  very  still.  From  glorious  tree 
to  battered  log  it  sank.  No  man  ever  saw  more 
instant  wreck  and  ruin  fall  lightning-like  on  a 
fair  thing.  The  mass  was  crushed  flat  and 
shapeless  by  its  own  vast  weight,  and  the  larger 
boughs,  which  did  not  touch  the  earth,  were 
snapped  short  off  by  the  concussion  of  their  fall. 

Billy  Jago  held  his  back  and  whined  while 
Barron  spoke,  as  much  to  himself  as  the  wood- 
man. 

"Dear  God!"  he  said,  "to  think  that  this 
glory  of  the  hedge-row — this  kingdom  of  song 


18  LYING    PROPHETS 

birds — should  come  to  the  making  of  pauper 
coffins  and  lodging-house  furniture!" 

"Squire  must  have  money;  an'  folks  must 
have  coffins,"  said  Billy.  "You  can  sleep  your 
last  sleep  so  sound  in  ellum  as  you  can  in  oak, 
for  that  matter." 

Feeling  the  truth  of  the  assertion,  Barren  ad- 
mitted it,  then  turned  his  back  on  the  fallen 
king  and  pursued  his  way  with  thoughts  revert- 
ing to  the  proposed  picture.  There  was  nothing 
to  alarm  Joan  Tregenza  about  him ;  which  seemed 
well,  as  he  meant  to  approach  the  girl  herself  at 
the  first  opportunity,  and  not  her  parents.  Bar- 
ron  did  not  carry  "artist"  stamped  upon  him. 
He  was  plainly  attired  in  a  thick  tweed  suit  and 
wore  a  cap  of  the  same  material.  The  man 
appeared  insignificantly  small.  He  was  clean- 
shaved  and  looked  younger  than  his  five-and- 
thirty  years  seen  a  short  distance  off,  but  older 
when  you  stood  beside  him.  He  strolled  now 
onward  toward  the  sea,  and  his  cheeks  took 
some  color  from  the  fine  air.  He  walked  with 
a  stick  and  carried  a  pair  of  field-glasses  in  a 
case  slung  over  his  shoulder.  The  field-glasses 
had  become  a  habit  with  him,  but  ho  rarely  used 
them,  for  his  small  slate-colored  eyes  were  keen. 

Once  and  again  John  Barron  turned  to  look 
at  St.  Michael's  Mount,  seen  afar  across  the 
bay.  The  magic  of  morning  made  it  beautiful 
and  the  great  pile  towered  grandly  through  a 
sunny  haze.  No  detail  disturbed  the  eye  under 
this  effect  of  light,  and  the  mount  stood  vast, 
dim,  golden,  magnified  and  glorified  into  a  fairy 


LYING   PROPHETS  19 

palace  of  romance  built  by  immortal  things  in 
a  night.  Seen  thus,  it  even  challenged  the  be- 
holder's admiration,  of  which  he  was  at  all  times 
sparing.  Until  that  hour,  he  had  found  nothing 
but  laughter  for  this  same  mount,  likening  the 
spectacle  of  it,  with  its  castle  and  cottages,  now 
to  a  senile  monarch  with  moth-eaten  ermine 
about  his  toes  and  a  lop-sided  crown  on  his  head, 
now  to  a  monstrous  sea-snail  creeping  shoreward. 
Barron,  having  walked  down  the  hill  to  Mouse- 
hole,  breasted  slowly  the  steep  acclivity  which 
leads  therefrom  toward  the  west.  Presently  he 
turned,  where  a  pleateau  of  grass  sloped  above 
the  cliffs  into  a  little  theater  of  banks  ablaze 
with  gorse.  And  here  his  thoughts  and  the 
image  they  were  concerned  with  perished  before 
reality.  Framed  in  a  halo  of  golden  furze,  her 
hands  making  a  little  penthouse  above  her  brow, 
and  in  her  blue  eyes  the  mingled  hue  of  sea  and 
sky,  stood  a  girl  looking  out  at  the  horizon.  The 
bud  of  a  wondrous  fair  woman  she  was,  and  Bar- 
ron saw  her  slim  yet  vigorous  figure  accentuated 
under  its  drab -brown  draperies  by  a  kindly 
breeze.  He  noted  the  sweet,  childish  freshness 
of  her  face,  her  plump  arms  filling  the  sleeves  of 
rusty  black,  and  her  feet  in  shoes  too  big  for 
them.  Her  hair  was  hidden  under  a  linen  sun- 
bonnet,  but  one  lock  had  escaped,  and  he  noted 
that  it  was  the  color  of  wheat  ripe  for  the  reap- 
ing. He  regretted  it  had  not  been  darker,  but 
observed  that  it  chimed  well  enough  with  the 
flaming  flowers  behind  it.  And  then  he  frankly 
praised  Nature  in  his  heart  for  sending  her  ser- 


20  LYING   PROPHETS 

vaut  such  a  splendid  harmony  in  gold  and  brown. 
There  stood  his  picture  in  front  of  him.  He 
gazed  a  brief  second  only,  and  then  his  quick 
mind  worked  to  find  what  human  interest  had 
brought  Joan  Tregenza  to  this  place  and  turned 
her  eyes  to  the  sea.  It  might  be  that  herein  ex- 
isted the  possibility  of  the  introduction  he  desired. 
He  felt  that  victory  probably  depended  on  the 
events  of  the  next  two  or  three  minutes.  He 
owed  a  supreme  effort  of  skill  and  tact  to  Fate, 
which  had  thus  befriended  him,  and  he  rose  to 
the  occasion. 

The  girl  looked  up  as  he  came  suddenly  upon 
her,  but  his  eyes  were  already  away  and  fixed 
upon  the  horizon  before  she  turned.  Observing 
that  he  was  not  regarding  her,  she  put  up  her 
hands  again  and  continued  to  scan  the  remote 
sea-line  where  a  thin  trail  of  dark  smoke  told 
of  a  steamer,  itself  apparently  invisible.  Barren 
took  his  glasses  from  their  case,  and  seeing  that 
the  girl  made  no  movement  of  departure,  acted 
deliberately,  and  presently  began  to  watch  a 
fleet  of  brown  sails  and  black  hulls  putting  forth 
from  the  little  harbor  below.  Then,  without 
looking  at  her  or  taking  his  eyes  from  the 
glasses,  he  spoke. 

"Would  you  kindly  tell  me  what  those  small 
Teasels  are  below  there  just  setting  out  to  sea?'1 
he  asked. 

The  girl  started,  looked  round,  and,  realizing 
that  he  had  addressed  her,  made  answer : 

"They'm  Mouzle*  luggers,  sir." 
*  Mouzle— Mouaehole. 


LYING   PROPHETS  21 

"Luggers,  are  they?  Thank  you.  And  where 
are  they  sailing  to?  Do  you  know?" 

"Away  down-long,  south'ard  o'  the  Scillies 
mostly,  arter  mackerl.  Theer's  a  power  o' 
mackerl  bein'  catched  just  now — thousands  an' 
thousands — but  some  o'  they  booats  be  laskin' — 
that's  just  fishin'  off  shore." 

"Ah,  a  busy  time  for  the  fishermen." 

"Iss,  'tis." 

"Thank  you.     Good-morning." 

"Good-marnin',  sir." 

He  started  as  though  to  continue  his  walk 
along  the  cliffs  beyond  the  plateau  and  the 
gorse;  then  he  stopped  suddenly,  actuated,  as 
it  seemed,  by  a  chance  thought,  and  turned  back 
to  the  girl.  She  was  looking  out  to  sea  again. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  unconcernedly,  and 
with  no  suggestion  that  anything  in  particular 
was  responsible  for  his  politeness.  "I  see  you 
are  on  the  lookout  there  for  something.  You 
may  have  my  glass  a  moment,  if  you  like,  be- 
fore I  go  on.  They  bring  the  ships  very  close." 

The  girl  flushed  with  shy  pleasure  and  seemed 
a  little  uncertain  what  to  answer.  Barren,  mean- 
while, showed  no  trace  of  a  smile,  but  looked 
bored  if  anything,  and,  with  a  serious  face, 
handed  her  the  glass,  then  walked  a  little  way 
off.  He  was  grave  and  courteous,  but  made  no 
attempt  at  friendship.  He  had  noticed  when 
Joan  smiled  that  her  teeth  were  fine,  and  that 
her  full  face,  though  sweet  enough,  was  a  shade 
too  plump. 

"Thank  'e  kindly,  sir,"  she  said,  taking  the 


22  LYING   PROPHETS 

glass.  "You  see  theer's  a  gert  ship  passin' 
down  Channel,  an' — an'  my  Joe's  aboard  'er, 
an'  they'm  bound  for  furrin'  paarts,  an'  I  prom- 
ised as  I'd  come  to  this  here  horny-winkjr  * 
plaace  to  get  a  last  sight  o'  the  vessel  if  I 
could." 

He  made  no  answer,  and,  after  a  pause,  she 
spoke  again. 

"I  caan't  see  naught,  but  that's  my  fault, 
p'raps,  not  bein'  used  to  sich  things." 

"Let  me  try  and  find  the  ship,"  he  said,  tak- 
ing the  glass,  which  he  had  put  out  of  focus  pur- 
posely. Then,  while  scanning  the  horizon  where 
he  had  noted  the  smoke-trail,  he  spoke,  his  head 
turned  from  her. 

"Who's  Joe,  if  I  may  ask?  Your  brother,  I 
daresay?" 

"No,  sir;  Joe'm  my  sweetheart." 

"There's  a  big  three-masted  ship  being  taken 
down  the  Channel  by  a  small  steamer." 

"Ah!  then  I  reckon  that's  the  'Anna,'  'cause 
Joe  said  'twas  tolerable  certain  they'd  be  in  tow 
of  a  tug." 

"You  can  see  the  smoke  on  the  edge  of  the 
sea.  Look  below  it." 

He  handed  the  glasses  to  her  again  and  heard 
a  little  laugh  of  delight  break  from  her  lips. 
The  surprise  of  the  suddenly-magnified  spectacle, 
visible  only  as  a  shadow  to  the  naked  eye,  brought 
laughter;  and  Barren,  now  that  the  girl's  atten- 

•  Horny-winky — Lonely.    Fit  place  for  horny-winks. 


LYING   PROPHETS  23 

tion  was  occupied,  had  leisure  to  look  at  her. 
She  was  more  than  a  pretty  cottage  rnaid,  and 
possessed  some  distinction  and  charm.  There 
was  a  delicacy  about  her  too — a  sweet  turn  of 
lip,  a  purity  of  skin,  a  set  of  limb — which  gave 
the  lie  to  her  rough  speech.  She  was  all  Saxon 
to  look  at,  with  nothing  of  the  Celt  about  her 
excepting  her  name  and  the  old  Cornish  words 
upon  her  lips.  Those  he  rejoiced  in,  for  they 
showed  that  she  still  remained  a  free  thing, 
primitive,  innocent  of  School  Boards,  or  like 
frost-biting  influences. 

Barron  took  mental  notes.  Joan  Tregenza 
was  a  careless  young  woman,  it  seemed.  Her 
dress  had  a  button  or  two  missing  in  front,  and 
a  safety-pin  had  taken  their  place.  Her  drab 
skirt  was  frayed  a  little  and  patched  in  one  cor- 
ner with  a  square  of  another  material.  But  the 
colors  were  well  enough,  from  the  artist's  point 
of  view.  He  noted  also  that  the  girl's  stockings 
were  darned  and  badly  needed  further  attention, 
for  above  her  right  shoe-heel  a  white  scrap  of 
Joan  was  visible.  Her  hands  were  a  little  large, 
but  well  shaped;  her  pose  was  free  and  fine, 
though  the  field-glasses  spoiled  the  picture  and 
the  sun-bonnet  hid  the  contour  of  her  head. 

"So  you  walked  out  from  Mouzle  to  see  the 
last  of  Joe's  ship?"  he  asked,  quite  seriously 
and  with  no  light  note  in  his  voice. 

"From  Newlyn.  I  ed'n  a  Mouzle  maid,"  she 
answered. 

"Is  the  'Anna'  coming  home  again  soon?" 

"No,  sir.     Her's  bound  for  the  Gulf  of  Cali- 


24  LYING   PROPHETS 

foruy,  round  t'other  side  the  world,  Joe  bez. 
He  reckons  to  be  back  agin'  come  winter." 

"That's  a  long  time." 

"Iss,  'tis." 

But  there  was  no  sentiment  about  the  answer. 
Joan  gazed  without  a  shadow  of  emotion  at  the 
vanishing  ship,  and  alluded  to  the  duration  of 
her  sweetheart's  absence  in  a  voice  that  never 
trembled.  Then  she  gave  the  glass  back  to  Bar- 
ron  with  many  thanks,  and  evidently  wanted  to 
be  gone,  but  stopped  awkwardly,  not  quite  know- 
ing how  to  depart. 

Meanwhile,  showing  no  further  cognizance  of 
her,  Barren  took  the  glasses  himself  and  looked 
at  the  distant  ship. 

"A  splendid  vessel,"  he  said.  "I  expect  you 
have  a  picture  of  her,  haven't  you?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  "but  I've  got  a  HI  ship 
Joe  cut  out  o'  wood  an'  painted  butivul.  Awnly 
that's  another  vessel  what  Joe  sailed  in  afore." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said,  "because 
you  were  good  enough  to  explain  all  about  the 
fishing-boats.  I'll  make  a  tiny  picture  of  the 
'Anna'  and  paint  it  and  give  it  to  you." 

But  the  girl  took  fright  instantly. 

"  You'm  a  artist,  then?"  she  said,  with  alarm 
in  her  face  and  voice. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,  no.  Do  I  look  like  an  artist?  I'm  only 
a  stranger  down  here  for  a  day  or  two.  I  paint 
things  sometimes  for  my  own  amusement,  that's 
all." 

"Pickshere?" 


"They  are  not  worth  calling  pictures.  Just 
scraps  of  the  sea  and  trees  and  cliffs  and  sky,  to 
while  away  the  time  and  remind  me  of  beautiful 
things  after  I  have  left  them." 

"You  bau't  a  artist  ezacally,  then?" 
"Certainly  not.  Don't  you  like  artists?" 
"Faither  don't.  He'm  a  fisherman  an'  caan't 
abear  many  things  as  happens  in  the  world. 
An'  not  artists.  Genlemen  have  arsked  him  to 
let  'em  take  my  picksher,  'cause  they've  painted 
a  good  few  maidens  to  Newlyn ;  an'  some  of  'em 
wanted  to  paint  farther  as  well;  but  he  up  an' 
sez  'No!'  short.  Paintin's  vanity  'cordin'  to 
faither,  same  as  they  flags  an'  cannels  an' 
moosic  to  Newlyn  church  is  vanity.  Most 
purty  things  is  vanity,  faither  reckons." 

"I'm   sure   he's  a  wise  man.     And  I  think 
he's  right,  especially  about  the  candles  and  flags 
in  church.     And  now  I  must  go  on  my  walk. 
Let  me  see,  shall  I  bring  you  the  little  picture 
of  Joe's  ship  here?     I  often  walk  out  this  way." 
He  assumed  she  would  take  the  picture,  and 
now  she  feared  to  object.      Moreover,  such  a 
sketch  would  be  precious  in  her  eyes. 
"Maybe  'tis  troublin'  of  'e,  sir?" 
"I've  promised  you.     I  always  keep  my  word. 
I  shall  be  here  to-morrow  about  mid -afternoon, 
because  it  is  lonely  and  quiet  and  beautiful.     I'm 
going  to  try  and  paint  the  gorse,  all  blazing  so 
brightly  against  the  sky." 
"Them  prickly  fuzz-bushes?" 
"Yes;  because  they  ar,e  very  beautiful." 
"But   they'm  everywheres.      You   might  so 


26  LYING    PROPHETS 

well  paint  the  bannel*  or  tho  yother  on  the 
moors,  mightn't  'e?" 

"They  are  beautiful,  too.  Remember,  I 
shall  have  Joe's  ship  for  you  to-morrow." 

Ho  nodded  without  smiling,  and  turned  away 
until  a  point  of  the  gorse  had  hidden  her  from 
sight.  Then  he  sat  down,  loaded  his  pipe,  and 
reflected. 

"  'Joe's  ship,'  "  he  said  to  himself,  "a  happy 
title  enough." 

And  meantime  the  girl  had  looked  after  him 
with  wonder  and  some  amusement  in  her  eyes, 
had  rubbed  her  chin  reflectively — a  habit  caught 
from  her  father— and  had  then  scampered  off 
smiling  to  herself. 

""What  a  funny  gent,"  she  thought,  "never 
laughs  nor  nothin'.  An'  I  judged  he  was  a 
artist!  But  wonnerful  kind,  an'  wonnerful 
queer,  wi'  it,  sure  'nough.' 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THE   TREGENZA8 

JOAN  TREGENZA  lived  in  a  white  cottage  al- 
ready mentioned:  that  standing  just  beyond 
Newlyn  upon  a  road  above  the  sea.  The  cot 
was  larger  than  it  appeared  from  the  road  and 

*  Bannel— Broom. 


LYING   PROPHETS  27 

extended  backward  into  an  orchard  of  plum  and 
apple-trees.  The  kitchen  which  opened  into  this 
garden  was  stone-paved,  cool,  comfortable,  sweet 
at  all  times  with  the  scent  of  wood  smoke,  and 
frequently  not  innocent  of  varied  fishy  odors. 
But  Newlyn  folk  suck  in  a  smell  of  fish  with 
their  mothers'  milk.  'Tis  part  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  home. 

When  Joan  returned  from  her  visit  to  Gorse 
Point,  she  found  a  hard-faced  woman,  thin  of 
figure,  with  untidy  hair,  wrinkled  brow  and 
sharp  features,  engaged  about  a  pile  of  washing 
in  the  garden  at  the  kitchen-door.  Mrs.  Tre- 
genza  heard  the  girl  arrive,  and  spoke  without 
lifting  her  little  gray  eyes  from  the  clothes.  Her 
voice  was  hard  and  high  and  discontented,  like 
that  of  one  who  has  long  bawled  into  a  deaf 
man's  ear  and  is  weary  of  it. 

"Drabbit  you!  Wbeeryou  bin?  Allus  traps- 
ing out  when  you'm  wanted ;  allus  caddlin'  round 
doin'  nothin'  when  you  ban't.  I  s'pose  you  think 
breakf  us'  can  be  kep'  on  the  table  till  dinner, 
washing-day  or  no?" 

"I  don't  want  no  breakf  us',  then.  I  tuke 
some  bread  an'  drippin'  long  with  me.  Wheer's 
Tom  to?" 

"Gone  to  schule  this  half-hour.  'Tis  nine 
o'clock  an'  past.  Wheer  you  bin,  I  sez?  'Tain't 
much  in  your  way  to  rise  afore  me  of  a  marnin'." 

"Out  through  Mouzle  to  Gorse  P'int  to  see 
Joe's  ship  pass  by;  an'  I  sern  en  butivul." 

"Thank  the  Lard  he's  gone.  Now,  I  s'pose, 
theer'll  be  a  bit  peace  in  the  house,  an'  you'll 


28  LYING   PROPHETS 

bide  home  an*  work.     My  fingers  is  to  the  bone 
day  an'  night." 

"He'll  be  gone  a  year  purty  nigh." 

""Well,  the  harder  you  works,  the  quicker  the 
time'll  pass  by.  Theer's  nuthin'  to  grizzle  at. 
Sea-farin'  fellers  must  be  away  most  times. 
But  he'm  a  good,  straight  man,  an'  you'm 
tokened  to  en,  an'  that's  enough.  Bide  cheer- 
ful an'  get  the  water  for  washin'.  If  they 
things  of  faither's  bant  dry  come  to-morrer, 
he'll  knaw  the  reason  why." 

Joan  accepted  Mrs.  Tregenza's  comfort  philo- 
sophically, though  her  sweetheart's  departure 
had  not  really  caused  her  any  emotion.  She 
visited  the  larder,  drank  a  cup  of  milk,  ami 
then,  fetching  an  iron  hoop  and  buckets,  went 
to  a  sunken  barrel  outside  the  cottage  door,  into 
which,  from  a  pipe  through  the  road-bank,  tum- 
bled a  silver  thread  of  spring  water. 

Of  the  Tregenza  household  a  word  must  needs 
be  spoken.  Joan's  own  mother  had  died  twelve 
j^ears  ago,  and  the  anxious-natured  woman  who 
took  her  place  proved  herself  a  good  step-parent 
enough.  Despite  a  disposition  prone  to  worry 
and  to  dwell  upon  the  small  tribulations  of  life, 
Thomasin  Tregenza  w;is  not  unhappy,  for  her 
husband  enjoyed  pr<  -jirrily  ami  a  reputation 
for  godliness  unequaled  in  Newlyn.  A 
weather-worn,  gray,  hairy  ni  in  was  he,  witli 
a  big  head  and  a  furrowed  cliff  of  a  forehead 
that  looked  as  though  it  had  been  carved  by  its 
Creator  from  Cornish  granite.  Tregenza  indeed 
might  have  stood  for  a  typical  Cornish  fisher— 


LYING   PROPHETS  29 

or  a  Bretoii.  Like  enough,  indeed,  he  had  old 
Armorican  blood  in  his  veins,  for  many  hun- 
dreds of  Britons  betook  themselves  to  ancient 
Brittany  when  the  Saxon  invasion  swept  the 
West,  and  many  afterward  returned,  with  for- 
eign wives,  to  the  homes  of  their  fathers. 
Michael  Tregenza  had  found  religion,  of  a  sort 
fiery  and  unlovely  enough,  but  his  convictions 
were  definite,  with  iron-hard  limitations,  and  he 
looked  coldly  and  without  pity  on  a  damned 
world,  himself  saved.  Gray  Michael  had  no 
sympathy  with  sin  and  less  with  sinners.  He 
found  the  devil  in  most  unexpected  quarters  and 
was  always  dragging  him  out  of  surprising  hid- 
ing-places and  exhibiting  him  triumphantly,  as 
a  boy  might  show  a  bird's  egg  or  butterfly.  His 
devil  dwelt  at  penny  readings,  at  fairs  and  festi- 
vals, in  the  brushes  of  the  artists,  in  a  walk  oil 
a  Sunday  afternoon  undertaken  without  a  defi- 
nite object,  sometimes  in  a  primrose  given  by  a 
boy  to  a  girl.  Of  all  these  bitter,  self-righteous, 
censorious  little  sects  which  raise  each  its  own 
ladder  to  the  Throne  of  Grace  at  Newlyn,  the 
Luke  Gospelers  was  the  most  bitter,  most  self- 
righteous,  most  censorious.  And  of  all  those 
burning  lights  which  reflected  the  primitive  sav- 
agery of  the  Pentateuch  from  that  fold,  Gray 
Michael's  beacon  flamed  the  fiercest  and  most 
bloody  red.  There  was  not  a  Gospeler,  including 
the  pastor  of  the  flock,  but  feared  the  austere 
fisherman  while  admiring  him. 

Concerning  his  creed,  at  the  risk  of  wearying 
you,  it  must  be  permitted  to  speak  here ;  for  only 


:j  LYING    PROPHETS 

by  grasping  its  leading  features  and  its  vast  un- 
likeness  to  the  parent  tree  can  a  just  estimate  of 
Michael  Tregenza  be  arrived  at.  Luke  Gospel- 
dom  had  mighty  little  to  do  with  the  Gospel  of 
Luke.  The  sect  numbered  one  hundred  and 
thirty-four  just  persons,  at  war  with  principali- 
ties and  powers.  They  were  saturated  with  the 
spirit  of  Israel  in  the  Wilderness,  of  Esau,  when 
every  man's  hand  was  against  him.  At  their 
chapel  one  heard  much  of  Jehovah,  the  jealous 
God,  of  the  burning  lakes  and  the  damnation 
reserved  for  mankind,  as  a  whole.  Every  Luke 
Gospeler  was  a  Jehovah  in  his  own  right.  They 
walked  hand  in  hand  with  God;  they  realized 
the  dismay  and  indignation  Newlyn  must  occa- 
sion in  His  breast;  they  sympathized  heartily 
with  the  Everlasting  and  would  have  calk-  i 
down  fire  from  Heaven  themselves  if  they 
could.  Many  openly  wondered  that  He  de- 
layed so  long,  for,  from  a  Luke  Gospeler's  point 
of  view,  the  place  with  its  dozen  other  chapels — 
each  held  in  error  by  the  rest,  and  all  at  deadly 
war  among  themselves — its  most  vile  ritualis- 
tic church  of  St.  Peter,  its  public- houses,  scan- 
dals, and  strifes,  was  riper  for  destruction  1 
Sodom.  However,  the  hundred  and  tin 
four  served  to  stave  off  celestial  brimstone, 
it  seemed. 

It  is  pitiable,  in  the  face  of  the  majestic  work 
of  John  Wesley  in  Cornwall,  to  see  the  shattered 
ruins  of  it  which  remain.     When  the  Wcsl'-y 
achieved  their  notable  revival  and  swept  off  the 
dust  of  a  dead  Anglicanism  which  covered  re- 


LYING   PROPHETS  31 

ligious  Cornwall  like  a  pall  in  the  days  of  the 
Georges,  the  old  Celtic  spirit,  though  these 
heroes  found  it  hard  enough  to  rekindle,  burst 
from  its  banked-up  furnaces  at  last  and  blazed 
abroad  once  more.  That  spirit  had  been  bred 
by  the  saint  bishops  of  Brito-Celtic  days,  and 
Wesley's  ultimate  success  was  a  grand  repeti- 
tion of  history,  as  extant  records  of  the  ancient 
use  of  the  Church  in  Cornwall  prove.  Its  prin- 
ciple was  that  he  who  filled  a  bishop's  office 
should,  before  all  things,  conduct  and  develop 
missionary  enterprise ;  and  the  moral  and  physi- 
cal courage  of  the  Brito-Celtic  bishops,  having 
long  slumbered,  awoke  again  in  John  Wesley. 
He  built  on  the  old  foundations,  he  gave  to  the 
laymen  a  power  at  that  time  blindly  denied  them 
by  the  Church — the  power  which  Irish  and  Welsh 
and  Breton  missionary  saints  of  old  had  vested 
in  them.  Wesley — himself  a  giant — made  wise 
use  of  the  strong  where  he  found  them,  and  if  a 
man — tinker  or  tinner,  fisher  or  jowster — could 
preach  and  grip  an  audience,  that  man  might  do 
so.  Thus  had  the  founders  of  the  new  creed  de- 
veloped it;  thus  does  the  Church  to-day;  but 
when  John  Wesley  filled  his  empty  belly  with 
blackberries  at  St.  Hilary,  in  1743;  when  he 
thundered  what  he  deemed  eternal  truth  through 
Cornwall,  year  after  year  for  half  a  century; 
when  he  faced  a  thousand  perils  by  sea  and  land 
and  spent  his  arduous  days  "in  watchings  often, 
in  hunger  and  thirst,  in  fasting  often,  in  cold 
and  nakedness";  when,  in  fine,  this  stupendous 
man  achieved  the  foundations  of  Methodism, 


32  LYING    PROPHETS 

the  harvest  was  overripe,  at  any  rate,  in  Corn- 
wall. No  Nonconformist  was  he,  though  few 
enough  of  his  followers  to-day  remember  that, 
if  they  ever  knew  it.  He  worked  for  his  church ; 
he  was  a  link  between  it  and  his  party;  his  last 
prayer  was  for  church  and  king — a  fact  which 
might  have  greatly  shocked  the  Luke  Qospelere 
had  such  come  to  their  ears.  For  John  Wesley 
was  their  only  saint,  and  they  honestly  believed 
that  they  alone  of  all  Methodist  communities 
were  following  in  his  footsteps.  Poor  souls! 
they  lived  as  far  from  what  "Wesley  taught  as 
it  is  easily  possible  to  conceive.  As  for  Gray 
Michael,  he  was  under  the  impression  that  he 
and  his  sect  worthily  held  aloft  the  true  light 
which  Wesley  brought  in  person  to  Newlyn, 
and  he  talked  with  authority  upon  the  subject 
of  his  master  and  his  master's  doings.  But  he 
knew  little  about  the  founder  of  Methodism  in 
reality,  and  still  less  about  the  history  of  the 
Methodist  movement.  Had  he  learned  that 
John  Wesley  himself  was  once  accused  of  Pop- 
ish practices;  had  he  known  that  not  until  some 
years  after  the  great  preacher's  death  did  his 
party,  in  conference  assembled,  separate  itself 
from  the  Church  of  England,  he  had  doubtless 
been  much  amazed.  Though  saturated  with 
religious  feeling,  the  man  was  wholly  ignorant 
of  religious  history  in  so  far  as  it  affected  his 
own  country.  To  him  all  saints  not  mentioned 
in  Scripture  were  an  al>«.mination  ami  invention 
of  Rome.  Had  he  been  informed  that  the  ven- 
erable missionary  saints  of  his  mother  land  were 


LYING   PROPHETS  33 

in  no  case  Romish,  another  vast  surprise  must 
have  awaited  him. 

Let  it  not  for  an  instant  be  supposed  that  the 
Luke  Gospelers  represented  right  Methodism. 
But  they  fairly  exemplified  a  sorry  side  of  it; 
those  little  offshoots  of  which  dozens  have  sepa- 
rated from  the  parent  tree ;  and  they  exhibited 
most  abundantly  in  themselves  that  canker- 
worm  of  Pharisaism  which  gnaws  at  the  root 
of  all  Nonconformity.  This  offense,  combined 
with  such  intolerance  and  profound  ignorance 
as  was  to  be  found  amid  the  Luke  Gospelers, 
produced  a  community  merely  sad  or  comic  to 
consider  according  to  the  point  of  view. 

An  instance  of  Michael  Tregenza's  attitude  to 
the  Church  will  illustrate  better  than  analysis 
the  lines  of  thought  on  which  he  served  his 
Creator. 

Once,  when  she  was  thirteen,  Joan  had  gone 
to  an  evening  service  at  St.  Peter's,  because  a 
friend  had  dared  her  to  do  so.  Her  father  was 
at  sea  and  she  believed  the  delinquency  could  by 
no  possibility  reach  his  ears.  But  a  Luke  Gos- 
peler  heard  the  dread  tidings  and  Michael  Tre- 
genza  was  quickly  informed  of  his  daughter's 
lapse.  He  accused  Joan  quietly  enough,  and 
she  confessed. 

"Then  you'm  a  damned  maiden,"  he  said, 
*'  'cause  you  sinned  open-eyed." 

He  thought  the  matter  over  for  a  week,  and 
finally  an  idea  occurred  to  him. 

"  'Tis  wi'in  the  power  o'  God  to  reach  even 
you  back,"  he  declared  to  Joan,  "an'  He's  put 


34  LYING   PROPHETS 

in  my  mind  that  chastenin'   might  do  it.     A 
sore  body's  saved  many  sowls  'fore  now." 

Whereupon  he  took  his  daughter  into  the  lit- 
tle parlor,  shut  the  door,  and  then  flogged  her 
as  he  would  have  flogged  a  boy — only  using  his 
hard  hand  instead  of  a  stick.  "Get  thee  behind 
her,  Satan!  Get  thee  behind  her,  Satan!  Get 
thee  behind  her,  Satan!"  he  groaned  with  every 
blow,  while  Joan  grit  her  teeth  and  bore  it  as 
long  as  she  could,  then  screamed  and  fainted. 
That  was  how  the  truth  about  heaven  and  hell 
came  to  her.  She  had  never  felt  physical  pain 
before,  and  eternal  torment  was  merely  an  idea. 
From  that  day,  however,  she  was  frightened  and 
listened  to  her  father  gladly  and  wept  tears  of 
thankfulness  when,  a  month  after  her  flogging, 
he  explained  that  he  had  wrestled  with  the  Lor.l 
for  her  soul  and  how  it  had  been  borne  in  upon 
him  that  she  was  saved  alive.  She  had  reached 
the  age  of  seventeen  now,  and  felt  quite  confi- 
dent upon  the  subject  of  eternity  as  became  a 
right  Luke  Gospeler.  Unlike  other  women  of 
the  sect,  however,  and  despite  extreme  igno- 
rance on  all  subjects,  the  girl  had  a  seed  of  hu- 
mor in  her  nature  only  waiting  circumstai 
to  ripen.  She  felt  pity,  too,  for  the  great 
damned  world,  and  though  religion  turned  life 
sad-colored,  her  own  simple,  healthy,  animal 
nature  and  high  spirits  brought  ample  share  of 
sunshine  and  delight.  She  was,  in  fact,  IHT 
mother's  child  rather  th.-in  her  father's.  His 
ancestors  before  him  h;nl  fought  ilu>  <l<-vil  ami 
lived  honest  lives  under  a  cloud  of  fear;  Michael's 


LYING   PROPHETS  35 

own  brother  had  gone  religious  mad,  when  still 
a  young  man,  and  died  in  a  lunatic  asylum ;  in- 
deed the  awful  difficulty  of  saving  his  soul  had 
been  in  the  blood  of  every  true  Tregenza  for 
generations.  But  Joan's  mother  came  of  differ- 
ent stock.  The  Chirgwins  were  upland  people. 
They  dwelt  at  Drift  and  elsewhere,  went  to  the 
nearest  church,  held  simple  views,  and  were 
content  with  orthodox  religion.  Mr.  Tregenza 
said  of  them  that  they  always  wanted  and  ex- 
pected God  to  do  more  than  His  share.  But  he 
married  Joan  Chirgwin,  nevertheless ;  and  now 
he  saw  her  again,  fair,  trustful,  light-hearted, 
in  his  daughter.  The  girl  indeed  had  more  of 
her  mother  in  her  than  Gray  Michael  liked. 
She  was  superstitious,  not  after  the  manner  of 
the  Tregenzas,  but  in  a  direction  that  must  have 
brought  her  father's  loudest  thunders  upon  her 
head  if  the  matter  had  come  to  his  ears.  She 
loved  the  old  stories  of  the  saints  and  spirits,  she 
gloried  secretly  in  the  splendid  wealth  of  folk- 
lore and  tradition  her  mother's  people  and  those 
like  them  possessed  at  command.  Her  dead 
parent  had  whispered  and  sung  these  matters 
into  Joan's  baby  ears  until  her  father  stopped 
it.  She  remembered  how  black  he  looked  when 
she  lisped  about  the  piskeys ;  and  though  to-day 
she  half  believed  in  demon  and  fairy,  goblin  and 
giant,  and  quite  believed  in  the  saints  and  their 
miracles,  she  kept  this  side  of  her  intelligence 
close  locked  when  at  home,  and  only  nodded 
very  gravely  when  her  father  roared  against  the 
blighting  credulity  of  men's  minds  and  the  follies 


36  LYING   PROPHETS 

for  which  fishers  and  miners,  and  indeed  the 
bulk  of  the  human  family  in  Cornwall,  must 
some  day  burn. 

People  outside  the  fold  said  that  the  Luke 
Qospelers  killed  Tregenza's  first  wife.  She,  of 
course,  accepted  her  husband's  convictions,  but 
it  had  never  been  in  her  tender  heart  to  catch 
the  true  Luke  Gospel  spirit.  She  was  too  full 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  too  prone  to  for- 
give and  forget,  too  tolerant  and  ready  to  see 
good  in  all  men.  The  fiery  sustenance  of  the 
new  tenets  withered  her  away  like  a  scorched 
flower,  and  she  died  five  years  after  her  child 
was  born.  For  a  space  of  two  years  the  widower 
remained  one;  then  he  married  again,  being  at 
that  time  a  hale  man  of  forty,  the  owner  of  his 
own  fishing  boat,  and  at  once  the  strongest  per- 
sonality and  handsomest  person  in  Newlyn. 
Thomasiu  Strick,  his  second  wife,  was  already 
a  Luke  Gospeler  and  needed  no  conversion. 
People  laughed  in  secret  at  their  wooing,  and 
likened  it  to  the  rubbing  of  granite  rocks  or  a 
miner's  pick  striking  fire  from  tin  ore.  A  boy 
presently  came  to  them ;  and  now  he  was  ten 
and  his  mother  forty.  She  passed  rightly  for  a 
careful,  money-loving  soul,  and  a  good  wife, 
with  the  wit  to  be  also  a  good  Luke  Gospeler. 
But  her  tongue  was  harder  than  her  heart. 
Father  and  mother  alike  thought  the  wide  world 
•  »f  their  boy,  though  the  child  was  brought  up 
urith'r  an  iron  rod.  Joan,  too,  loved  her  half- 
l.n.th.-i  T..IM  learly,  ami  took  ;i  j>ri«lt-  «>nly 

second  to  her  -t<-j. mother's  in  UK-  latl'>  progress 


LYING   PllOPHE'13  37 

and  achievements.  More  than  once,  though  only 
Joan  and  he  knew  it,  she  had  saved  his  skin  from 
punishment,  and  she  worshiped  him  with  a  frank 
admiration  which  was  bound  to  win  Mrs.  Tre- 
genza's  regard.  Joan  quite  understood  the  care- 
ful and  troubled  matron,  never  attached  undue 
importance  to  her  sharp  words,  and  was  usually 
at  her  elbow  with  an  ear  for  all  grievances  and 
even  a  sympathetic  word  if  the  same  seemed 
called  for.  Mrs.  Tregenza  had  to  grumble  to- 
live,  and  Joan  was  the  safety-valve,  for  when 
her  husband  came  off  the  sea  he  would  have 
none  of  it. 

Life  moved  uniformly  for  these  people,  being 
varied  only  by  the  seasons  of  the  year  and  the  dif- 
ferent harvests  from  the  sea  which  each  brought 
with  it.  Pollock,  mackerel,  pilchards,  herrings 
— all  had  their  appointed  time,  and  the  years 
rolled  on,  marked  by  events  connected  with  the 
secular  business  of  life  on  one  hand  and  that 
greater  matter  of  eternity  upon  the  other.  Thus 
mighty  catches  of  fish  held  the  memory  with 
mighty  catches  of  men.  One  year  the  take  of 
mackerel  had  been  beyond  all  previous  recollec- 
tion; on  another  occasion  three  entire  families 
had  joined  the  Luke  Gospelers,  and  so  promised 
to  increase  the  scanty  numbers  of  the  chosen. 
There  were  black  memories,  too,  and  black 
years,  casting  gloomy  shadows.  Widows  and 
orphans  knew  what  it  was  to  watch  for  brown 
sails  that  came  into  the  harbor's  sheltering  arms 
no  more ;  and  spiritual  death  had  overtaken  more 
than  one  Luke  Gospeler.  Such  turned  their 


38  LYING    PROPHETS 

backs  upon  the  light  and  exchanged  Truth  for 
tut-  benighted  parody  of  religion  displayed  by 
Bible  Christians,  by  Plymouth  Brethren  or 
by  the  Church  of  England. 

Six  months  before  the  day  on  which  she 
saw  his  ship  through  Barren's  glasses,  Joan 
had  been  formally  affianced  to  Joe  Noy,  with 
her  father's  permission  and  approval.  The  <  ir- 
cumstances  of  the  event  demand  a  word,  for  Joe 
had  already  been  engaged  once  before :  to  Mary 
Chirgwin,  a  young  woman  who  was  first  cousin 
to  Joan  and  a  good  deal  older.  She  was  an 
orphan  and  dwelt  at  Drift  with  Thomas  Chirg- 
win, her  uncle.  The  sailor  had  thereby  bright- 
ened an  unutterably  lonely  life  and  brought 
earthly  joy  to  one  who  had  never  known  it. 
Then  Gray  Michael  got  hold  of  the  lad,  who  was 
naturally  of  a  solid  and  religious  temperament, 
and  up  to  that  time  of  the  order  of  the  Rechab- 
ites.  As  a  result,  Joe  Noy  joined  the  Luke 
Gospelers  and  called  upon  his  sweetheart  to  do 
likewise.  But  she  recollected  her  aunt,  Joan's 
mother,  and  being  made  of  stern  stuff,  stuck  to 
the  Church  of  England  as  she  knew  it,  counting 
salvation  a  greater  thing  than  even  a  home  of 
her  own.  The  struggle  was  sharp  between 
them;  neither  would  give  way;  their  engage- 
ment was  therefore  broken,  and  the  girl's  soli- 
tary golden  glimpse  of  happiness  in  this  world 
shattered.  She  found  it  hard  to  forgive  the 
Tregenzas,  and  when,  six  months  afterward, 
the  sleepy  farm  life  at  Drift  was  startled  by 
news  of  Joan's  love  affair,  Mary,  in  the  first 


LYING   PROPHETS  39 

flush  of  her  reawakened  agony,  spoke  bitterly 
enough;  and  even  that  most  mild-mannered  of 
men,  her  uncle,  said  that  Michael  Tregenza  had 
done  an  ugly  act. 

But  the  fisherman  was  at  no  time  concerned 
with  Mary  or  with  Joan.  The  opportunity  to 
get  a  soul  into  the  fold  had  offered  and  been 
accepted.  Any  matter  of  earthly  love-making 
counted  little  beside  this.  When  Joe  broke 
with  Mary,  his  mentor  declared  the  action  in- 
evitable, as  the  girl  would  not  alter  her  opin 
ions,  and  when,  presently,  young  Noy  fell  in 
love  with  Joan,  her  father  saw  no  objection,  for 
the  sailor  was  honest,  already  a  stanch  Luke 
Gospeler  and  a  clean  liver. 

Perhaps  at  that  moment  there  was  hardly  an- 
other eligible  youth  in  Newlyn  from  Tregenza's 
point  of  view.  He  held  Joan  a  girl  to  be  put 
under  stern  marital  rule  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
Joe  promised  to  make  a  godly  husband  with  a 
strong  will,  while  his  convictions  and  view  of 
life  were  altogether  satisfactory,  being  modeled 
on  Michael's  own.  The  arrangement  suited 
Joan.  She  believed  she  loved  Joe  very  dear- 
ly, and  she  looked  forward  with  satisfaction  to 
marrying  him  in  about  a  year's  time,  when  he 
should  have  won  a  ship-master's  certificate. 
But  she  viewed  his  departure  without  suffer- 
ing and  would  not  have  willingly  foregone  her 
remaining  year  of  freedom.  She  respected  Joe 
very  much  and  knew  he  would  make  a  good 
partner  and  give  her  a  position  above  the  every- 
day wives  of  Newlyn ;  moreover,  he  was  a  fine 


40  LYING   PROPHETS 

figure  of  a  man.  But  be  lacked  mental  breadth, 
and  tbat  fact  sometimes  tickled  her  dormant 
sense  of  humor.  He  copied  her  father  so  ex- 
actly, and  she,  who  lived  with  the  real  thunder, 
never  could  show  sufficient  gravity  or  convic- 
tion in  the  presence  of  the  youthful  and  narrow- 
minded  Noy's  second-hand  echoes.  Mary  Chirg 
win  was  naturally  a  thousand  times  more  re- 
ligious-minded than  Joan,  and  sometimes  Joe 
wished  the  sober  mind  of  his  first  love  could  be 
transported  to  the  beautiful  body  of  his  second ; 
but  he  kept  this  notion  to  himself,  studied  to 
please  his  future  father-in-law,  which  he  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  handsomely,  and  contented  him- 
self, in  so  far  as  his  lady  was  concerned,  by 
reflecting  that  the  necessary  control  over  her 
somewhat  light  mind  would  be  his  in  due  season. 
To  return  from  this  tedious  but  necessary 
glimpse  at  the  position  and  belief  of  these  peo 
pie  to  Joan  and  the  washing,  it  is  to  be  noted 
that  she  quickly  made  up  for  lost  time,  and, 
without  further  mentioning  the  incidents  of  her 
morning's  excursion,  began  to  work.  She  pulled 
up  her  sleeves,  dragged  her  dress  about  her  waist, 
then  started  to  cleanse  the  thick  flannels  her 
father  wore  at  sea,  his  long-tailed  shirts  and 
woolen  stockings.  The  Tregenzas  were  well- 
to-do  folk,  and  did  not  need  to  use  the  open 
spaces  of  the  village  for  drying  of  clot: 
Joan  presently  set  up  a  line  among  the  plum- 
trees,  and  dawdled  over  the  hanging  out  of  \\v. 
garments,  for  it  was  now  noon,  sunny,  mild, 
and  fresh,  with  a  cool  salt  breeze  off  the  sen. 


LYING    PROPHETS  41 

The  winter  repose  of  the  bee-butts  had  been 
broken  at  last,  and  the  insects  were  busy  with 
the  plum-blossom  and  among  the  little  green 
flowerets  on  the  gooseberry  bushes.  Beyond, 
sun-streaked  and  bright,  extended  apple-trees 
with  whitewashed  stems  and  a  twinkle  of  crim- 
son on  their  boughs,  where  buds  grew  ripe  for 
the  blowing. 

Joan  yawned  and  blinked  up  at  the  sun  to  see 
if  it  was  dinner  time.  Then  she  watched  a  kit- 
ten hunting  the  bees  in  the  gooseberry  bushes. 
Presently  the  little  creature  knocked  one  to  the 
ground  and  began  to  pat  it  and  pounce  upon  it. 
Then  the  bee,  using  Nature's  weapon  to  pre- 
serve precious  life,  stung  the  kitten;  and  the 
kitten  hopped  into  the  air  much  amazed.  It 
shook  its  paw,  licked  it,  shook  it  again.  Joan 
laughed,  and  two  pigs  at  the  bottom  of  the  gar- 
den heard  her  and  grunted  and  squealed  as  they 
thrust  expectant  noses  through  the  palings  of 
their  sty.  They  connected  the  laugh  with  their 
dinner,  but  Joan's  thoughts  were  all  upon  her 
own. 

A  few  minutes  later  Thomasin  Tregenza  called 
her,  and,  as  they  sat  down,  Tom  arrived  from 
school.  He  was  a  brown-faced,  dark-eyed, 
black-haired  youngster,  good-looking  enough, 
bat  not  at  that  moment. 

"Aw!  Jimmery!  fightin'  agin,"  said  his 
mother,  viewing  two  swollen  lips,  a  bulged 
ear,  and  an  eye  half  closed. 

"I've  downed  Matthew  Bent,  Joan!  Ten 
fair  rounds,  then  he  gived  up." 


42  LYING   PROPHETS 

"Fight,  fight,  fight— 'tis  all  you  think  of," 
said  his  parent,  while  Joaii  poured  congratula- 
tions on  the  conqueror. 

"  'Tweer  bound  to  come  arter  the  football, 
when  he  played  foul,  an'  I  tawld  en  so.  Now, 
we'm  friends." 

"Be  he  bruised  same  as  you?" 

"A  sight  worse;  he's  a  braave  picksher,  I  tell 
Je !  I  doubt  he  won't  come  to  schule  this  arter- 
noon.  That'll  shaw.  I  be  gwaine,  if  I  got  to 
crawl  theer." 

"An'  him  a  year  older  than  what  you  be!" 
said  Joan. 

"Iss,  Mat's  'leben  year  old.  I'll  have  some 
vinegar  an'  brown  paper  to  this  here  eye, 
mother." 

"Ait  your  mayte,  ait  your  mayte  fust,"  she 
answered.  "Plague  'pon  your  fightin' !" 

"But  that  Bent  bwoy's  bin  at  en  for  months; 
an'  a  year  older  too,"  said  Joan. 

"Iss,  the  bwoy's  got  no  more'n  what  'e  de- 
sarved.  For  that  matter,  they  Bents  be  all 
puffed  up,  though  they'm  so  poor  as  rats,  an' 
wi'out  'iiough  religion  to  save  the  sawl  of  a 
new-born  babe  'mongst  the  lot  of  'em." 

Tom,  with  his  mouth  full  of  fish  and  potato 
pie,  told  the  story  of  his  victory,  and  the  women 
made  a  big,  hearty  meal  and  listened. 

"He  cockled  up  to  me,  an'  us  beginned  fight- 
in*  right  away,  an'  in  the  third  round  I  scat  en 
on  the  mouth  an'  knocked  wan  'is  teeth  out. 
An'  in  the  fifth  round  he  dropped  me  a  whister- 
cuff  'pon  the  eye  as  made  me  blink  proper." 


LYING   PROPHETS  43 

"Us  doan't  want  to  knaw  no  more  'bout 
it,"  declared  his  mother  after  dinner  was  over. 
"You've  laced  en  an'  that's  enough.  You 
knaw  what  faither'll  say.  You  did  ought  to 
fight  no  battle  but  the  Lard's.  Now  clap  this 
here  over  your  eye  for  a  bit,  then  be  off  with  'e." 

Tom  marched  away  to  school  earlier  than 
usual  that  afternoon,  while  the  women  went  to 
the  door  and  watched  him  trudge  off,  both 
mightily  proud  of  his  performance  and  his  bat- 
tered brown  face. 

"He  be  a  reg'lar  lil  apty-cock,*  sure  'nough!" 
said  Joan. 

Mrs.  Tregenza  answered  with  a  nod  and 
looked  along  the  road  after  her  son.  There  was 
a  softer  expression  in  her  eyes  as  she  watched 
him.  Besides,  she  had  eaten  well  and  was  com- 
fortable. Now  she  picked  her  teeth  with  a  pin, 
and  snuffed  the  sea  air,  and  gave  a  passing 
neighbor  "good-afternoon"  with  greater  warmth 
of  manner  than  usual.  Presently  her  mood 
changed;  she  noisily  rated  herself  and  her 
stepdaughter  for  standing  idling;  then  both 
back  to  their  work. 


*  Apty-cock  —  Brave,  plucky  youngster. 


44  LYING  PROPHETS 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

BARRON  BEGINS  TO  LEARN  THE  GORSE 

BETWEEN  four  and  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
of  the  following  day  the  master  of  the  white  cot- 
tage came  home.  His  wife  expected  him  and 
was  getting  breakfast  when  Michael  tramped  in 
— a  very  tall,  square-built  man,  clad  to  the  eye 
in  tanned  oilskin  overalls,  sou'wester,  and  jack- 
boots. The  fisherman  returned  to  his  family  in 
high  good  temper;  for  the  sea  had  yielded  silvery 
thousands  to  his  drift-nets,  and  the  catch  had 
already  been  sold  in  the  harbor  for  a  handsome 
figure.  The  brown  sails  of  Tregeii-a's  lugger 
flapped  in  the  bay  among  a  crowd  of  others,  and 
every  man  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  off  again  at  the 
earliest  opportunity.  Already  the  first  boats 
home  were  putting  to  sea  once  more,  making  a 
wide  tack  across  the  mouth  of  the  bay  until 
nearly  abreast  of  St.  Michael's  Mount,  then 
tearing  away  like  race  horses  with  foam  flying 
as  they  sailed  before  the  eastern  wind  for  the 
Scilly  Islands  and  the  mucker  1 

Michael  kissed  his  wife  and  Joan  also,  as  she 
came  to  the  kitchen  sleepy-eyed  in  the  soft  light 
to  welcome  him.  Then,  while  Mrs.  Tregeuza 
waa  busied  with  breakfast  and  the  girl  cleaned 


LYING   PROPHETS  45 

some  fish,  he  went  to  his  own  small  room  off  the 
kitchen  and  changed  his  clothes — all  silvery, 
scale-spotted  and  blood-smeared — for  the  clean 
garments  which  were  spread  and  waiting.  First 
the  man  indulged  in  luxuries.  He  poured  out  a 
large  tub  of  fresh  water  and  washed  himself ;  he 
even  cleaned  his  nails  and  teeth — hyberbolic  re- 
finements that  made  the  baser  sort  laugh  at  him 
behind  his  back. 

At  the  meal  which  followed  his  toilet  Tregenza 
talked  to  his  wife  and  daughter  upon  various 
subjects.  He  spoke  slowly  and  from  the  lungs 
with  the  deep  echoing  voice  of  one  used  to  vocal 
exercise  in  the  open  air. 

"I  seed  the  'Anna'  yesterday,  Joan,"  he  said, 
"a  proud  ship,  full-rigged  wi'  butivul  lines. 
Her  passed  wi'iri  three  mile  .of  us  or  less  off 
the  islands." 

Joan  did  not  hint  at  her  visit  to  Gorse  Point 
of  the  previous  day,  but  her  stepmother  men- 
tioned it,  and  her  father  felt  called  upon  to  rep- 
rimand his  daughter,  though  not  very  seriously. 

'"Twas  a  empty,  vain  thing  to  do,"  he  said. 

"I  promised  Joe,  faither." 

"Why,  then  you  was  right  to  go,  though  a 
fulish  thing  to  promise  en.  Wheer's  Tom 
to?" 

Tom  came  down  a  minute  later.  The  swell- 
ing of  his  lips  was  lessened,  but  his  ear  had  not 
returned  to  a  normal  size  and  his  eye  was  black. 

"Fighting  again?"  Michael  began,  looking  up 
from  his  saucer  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  his  son. 

"Please,  faither,  I—" 


46  LYING  PROPHETS 

"Doan't  say  naught.  You'm  so  fond  of  it 
that  I  judges  you'd  best  begin  fightiu'  the  battle 
o'  life  right  on  end.  'Tain't  no  use  keepin' 
you  to  schule  no  more.  'Tis  time  you  corned 
aboard." 

Tom  crowed  with  satisfaction,  and  Mrs.  Tre- 
genza  sighed  and  stopped  eating.  This  event 
had  been  hanging  over  her  head  for  many  a 
long  day  now ;  but  she  had  put  the  thing  away, 
and  secretly  hoped  that  after  all  Tregenza  would 
change  his  mind  and  apprentice  the  boy  to  a 
shore  trade.  However,  Tom  had  made  his 
choice,  and  his  father  meant  him  to  abide  by 
it.  No  other  life  appealed  to  the  boy ;  heredity 
marked  him  for  the  sea,  and  he  longed  for  the 
hard  business  to  begin. 

"I'll  larn  you  something  besides  fisticuffs,  my 
beauty.  'Tis  all  well-a-fine,  this  batterin'  an' 
bruisin',  but  it  awnly  breeds  the  savage  in  'e, 
flame  as  raw  meat  do  in  a  dog.  No  more  fightin' 
'cept  wi'  dirty  weather  an'  high  seas  an'  con- 
trary winds,  an'  the  world,  the  flaish  an'  the 
devil.  I  went  to  sea  as  a  lugger-bwoy  when  I 
was  eight  year  old,  an'  ain't  bin  off  the  water 
more'n  a  month  to  wance  ever  since.  This  day 
two  week  you  come  along  wi'  me.  That'll  give 
mother  full  time  to  see  'bout  your  kit  " 

Joan  wept,  Thomasin  Tregenza  whined,  and 
Tom  danced  a  break-down  and  rolled  away  to 
Bee  some  fisher-boy  friends  in  tlu»  harbor  before 
school  began.  Then  Michael,  Billing  !»«  daugh- 
ter to  him,  walked  with  her  among  his  plniri- 
tree«,  bilked  of  God  with  sonic  quotations,  and 


LYING   PROPHETS  4? 

looked  at  his  pigs.  Presently  he  busied  himself 
and  made  ready  for  sea  in  a  little  outhouse 
where  paint  and  ship's  chandlery  were  stored ; 
and  finally,  the  hour  then  being  half  past  seven, 
he  returned  to  his  labors.  Joan  walked  with 
him  to  the  harbor  and  listened  while  he  talked 
of  the  goodness  of  God  to  the  Luke  Gospelers  at 
sea;  how  the  mackerel  had  been  delivered  to 
them  in  thousands,  and  how  the  Bible  Christians 
and  Primitive  Methodists  had  fared  by  no  means 
so  happily.  The  tide  was  high,  and  Gray 
Michael's  skiff  waited  for  him  at  the  pierhead 
beside  the  lighthouse.  He  soon  climbed  down 
into  it,  and  the  little  boat,  rowed  by  two  strong 
pairs  of  hands,  danced  away  to  the  fleet.  Al- 
ready the  luggers  were  stretching  off  in  a  long 
line  across  the  bay ;  and  among  them  appeared 
a  number  of  visitors:  Lowestoft  yawls  come 
down  to  the  West  after  the  early  mackerel. 
They  were  big,  stout  vessels,  and  many  had 
steam-power  aboard.  Joan  watched  her  father's 
lugger  start  and  saw  it  overhaul  not  a  few 
smaller  ships  before  she  turned  from  the  busy 
harbor  homeward.  That  morning  she  designed 
to  work  with  a  will,  for  the  afternoon  was  to  be 
spent  on  Gorse  Point  if  all  went  well,  and  she 
already  looked  forward  somewhat  curiously  to 
her  next  meeting  with  the  singular  man  who 
had  lent  her  his  field-glass. 

Mrs.  Tregenza  was  in  sorry,  snappy  case  all 
day.  The  blow  had  fallen,  and  within  a  fort- 
night Tom  would  go  to  sea.  This  dismal  fact 
depressed  her  not  a  little,  and  she  snuffled  over 


48  LYING    PROPHETS 

her  ironing,  and  her  voice  grated  worse  than 
usual  upon  the  ear. 

"He's  such  a  hot-headed  twoad  of  a  bwoy.  I 
knaw  he'll  never  get  on  'pon  the  water.  I  doubt 
us'll  hear  he's  bin  knocked  overboard  or  some 
sich  thing  some  day;  an*  them  two  brothers^ 
they  Pritchards,  as  allus  sails  'long  wi'  Tre- 
genza,  they'm  that  comical-tempered  every  one 
knaws.  Oh,  my  God,  why  couldn'  he  let  the 
bwoy  larn  a  land  trade — carpenterin'  or  sich 
like?" 

"But,  you  see,  faither's  a  rich  man,  an'  some 
time  Tom'll  fill  his  shoes.  Faither  do  awn  his 
bwoat  an'  the  nets  tu,  which  is  more'n  most 
Newlyn  men  does." 

"Iss,  I  should  think  'twas,"  said  Mrs.  Tre- 
genza,  forgetting  her  present  sorrow  in  the 
memory  of  such  splendid  circumstances.  "Theer 
ban't  wan  feller  as  awns  all  like  what  fait  her  do. 
The  Lard  helps  His  chosen,  not  but  what  Trc- 
genza  allus  helped  hisself  an'  set  the  example  to 
Newlyn  from  his  boyhood." 

Mrs.  Tregenza  always  licked  her  lips  when 
she  talked  about  money  or  religion,  and  she  did 
so  now. 

Among  Cornish  drifters  Gray  Michael's  posi- 
tion was  undoubtedly  unique,  for  under  the  rules 
of  the  Cornish  fishery  he  enjoyed  exceptional 
advantages  owing  to  his  personal  possession  both 
of  boat  and  nets.  The  owner  of  a  drift-boat 
takes  one-eighth  j*irt  of  the  gross  procoods  of  .1 
natch,  and  the  remaining  sovcn-ri^hths  are 
«liviil"(l  into  t\v..  .-.ju:il  pjirts  of  which  one  part  is 


LYING   PROPHETS  49 

subdivided  among  the  crew  of  the  boat,  while 
the  other  goes  to  the  owner  or  owners  of  the  nets 
used  on  board.  The  number  of  nets  to  a  boat  is 
about  fifty  as  a  rule,  and  a  man  to  possess  his 
own  boat  and  outfit  must  be  unusually  well-to- 
do. 

But  it  was  partly  for  this  reason  that  Mrs. 
Tregenza  refused  to  be  comforted.  She  grudged 
every  farthing  spent  on  anything,  and  much 
disliked  the  notion  of  tramping  to  Penzance  to 
expend  the  greater  part  of  a  five-pound  note  on 
Tom's  sea  outfit.  In  a  better  cause  she  would 
not  have  thought  it  ill  to  expend  money  upon 
him.  His  position  pointed  to  something  higher 
than  a  fisherman's  life.  He  might  have  aspired 
to  a  shop  in  the  future  together  with  a  measure 
of  worldly  prosperity  and  importance  not  to  be 
expected  for  any  mere  seafarer.  But  Tom  had 
settled  the  matter  by  deciding  for  himself,  and 
his  father  had  approved  the  ambition,  so  there 
the  matter  ended,  save  for  grumbling  and  sigh- 
ing. Joan,  too,  felt  sore  enough  at  heart  when 
she  heard  that  the  long-dreaded  event  lay  but  a 
fortnight  in  the  future.  But  she  knew  her 
father,  and  felt  sure  that  the  certainty  of  Tom's 
going  to  sea  at  the  appointed  time  would  now 
only  be  defeated  by  death  or  the  Judgment  Day. 
So  she  did  not  worry  or  fret.  Nothing  served  to 
soothe  her  stepmother,  however,  and  the  girl 
was  glad  to  slip  off  after  dinner,  leaving  Thorn  - 
asin  with  her  troubles. 

Joan  made  brisk  way  through  Mousehole  and 
in  less  than  an  hour  stood  out  among  the  furzes 


50  LYING    PROPHETS 

in  the  little  lonely  theater  above  the  cliffs.  For 
a  moment  she  saw  nothing  of  John  Barren,  then 
she  found  him  sitting  on  a  camp-stool  before  a 
light  easel  which  looked  all  legs  with  a  mere 
little  square  patch  of  a  picture  perched  upon 
them.  Joan  walked  to  within  a  few  yards  of 
the  artist  and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  But 
eye,  hand,  brain  were  all  working  together  on 
the  sketch  before  him,  aiid  if  he  saw  the  visitor 
at  all,  which  was  doubtful,  he  took  no  notice  of 
her.  Joan  came  a  little  closer,  and  still  John 
Barron  ignored  her  presence.  Then  she  grew 
uncomfortable,  and,  feeling  she  must  break  the 
silence,  spoke. 

"I  be  come,  sir,  'cordin'  to  what  you  said." 

He  added  a  touch  and  looked  up  with  no 
recognition  in  his  eyes.  His  forehead  frowned 
with  doubt  apparently,  then  he  seemed  to  re- 
member. "Ah,  the  young  woman  who  told  me 
about  the  luggers."  Suddenly  he  smiled  at  her, 
the  first  time  she  had  seen  him  do  so. 

"You  never  mentioned  your  name,  I  think?" 

"Joan  Tregenza,  sir." 

"I  promised  you  a  little  picture  of  that  big 
ship,  didn't  I?" 

"You  was  that  kind,  sir." 

"Well,  I  haven't  forgotten  it.  I  finished  the 
picture  this  morning  and  I  think  you  may  like 
it,  but  I  had  to  leave  it  until  to-morrow,  because 
the  paints  take  so  long  to  dry." 

"I'm  sure  I  thank  you  kindly,  sir." 

"No  need.  To-morrow  it  will  l*>  quite  ready 
for  you,  with  a  frame  and  all  i  (.inph  k>.  You 


LYING  PBOPHETS  51 

see  I've  begun  to  try  and  paint  the  gorse."  He 
invited  her  by  a  gesture  to  view  his  work.  She 
came  closer,  and  as  she  bent  he  glanced  up  at 
her  with  his  face  for  a  moment  close  to  hers. 
Then  she  drew  back  quickly,  blushing. 

"'Tis  butivul — just  like  them  fuzzes." 

He  had  been  working  for  two  hours  before  she 
came,  painting  a  small  patch  of  the  gorse.  Old 
gnarled  stems  wound  upward  crookedly,  and 
beneath  them  lay  a  dead  carpet  of  gorse  needles 
with  a  blade  or  two  of  grass  shooting  through. 
From  the  roots  and  bases  of  the  main  stems 
sprouted  many  a  shoot  of  young  gorse,  their 
prickles  tender  as  the  claws  of  a  new-born  kit- 
ten, their  shape,  color,  and  foliage  of  thorns 
quite  different  to  the  mature  plant  above. 
There,  in  the  main  masses  of  the  shrub,  mossy 
brown  buds  in  clumps  foretold  future  splendor. 
But  already  much  gold  had  burst  the  sheath  and 
was  ablaze,  scenting  the  pure  air,  murmured 
over  by  many  bees. 

"You  could  a'most  pick  thicky  theer  flowers," 
declared  Joan  of  the  picture. 

"Perhaps  presently,  when  they  are  painted  as 
I  hope  to  paint  them.  This  is  only  a  rough  bit 
of  work  to  occupy  my  hand  and  eye  while  I  am 
learning  the  gorse.  Men  who  paint  seriously 
have  to  learn  trees  and  blossoms  just  as  they 
have  to  learn  faces.  And  we  are  never  satis- 
fied. When  I  have  painted  this  gorse,  with  its 
thorns  and  buds,  I  shall  sigh  for  more  truth.  I 
cannot  paint  the  soul  of  each  little  yellow  flower 
that  opens  to  the  sun ;  I  cannot  paint  the  sunny 


52  LYING   PROPHETS 

smell  that  is  sweet  in  our  nostrils  now.  God's 
gorse  scents  the  air ;  mine  will  only  smell  of  fat 
oil.  What  shall  I  do?" 

"I  dunnaw." 

"No  more  does  anybody.  It  can't  be  helped. 
But  I  must  try  my  best  and  make  it  real — each 
spike,  as  I  see  it — the  dead  gray  ones  on  the 
ground  and  the  live  green  ones  on  the  tree,  and 
the  baby  ones  and  the  old  gray -pointed  ones, 
which  have  seen  their  best  days  and  will  pres- 
ently die  and  fall — I  must  paint  them  all,  Joan." 

She  laughed. 

"Don't  laugh,"  he  said,  very  seriously.  "Only 
an  artist  would  laugh  at  me,  not  you  who  love 
Nature.  There  lives  a  great  painter,  Joan,  who 
paints  pictures  that  nobody  else  in  the  wide 
world  can  paint.  He  is  growing  old,  but  he  is 
not  too  old  to  take  trouble  still.  Once,  when  he 
was  a  young  man,  he  drew  a  lemon-tree  far 
away  in  Italy.  It  was  only  a  little  lemon-tree, 
but  the  artist  rose  morning  after  morning  and 
drew  it  leaf  by  leaf,  twig  by  twig,  until  every 
leaf  and  bud  and  lemon  and  bough  had  ap- 
peared. It  was  not  labored  and  false;  it  was 
grand  because  it  was  true:  a  joy  forever;  work 
Old  Masters  had  loved;  full  of  distinction  and 
power  and  patience  almost  Oriental.  A  thing, 
Joan  Tregenza,  worth  a  wilderness  of  'har- 
monies' and  'impressions,'  'nocturnes'  and 
'notes,'  smudges  and  audacities.  But  I  suppose 
that  is  all  gibberish  to  you?" 

"Iss,  so  it  be,"  she  admitted. 

"Learn  to  love  everything  that  is  bountiful, 


LYING   PROPHETS  53 

my  good  child.     But  I   think  you  do,  uncon- 
sciously perhaps." 

"I  don't  take  much  'count  of  things." 

"Yes,  unconsciously.  You  have  a  cowslip 
there  stuck  in  your  frock,  though  where  you  got 
it  from  I  can't  imagine.  The  flower  is  a  month 
too  early." 

"Iss,  'tis,  I  found  en  in  a  lew,  sunshiny  plaace. 
Us  have  got  a  frame  for  growin'  things  under 
glass,  an'  it  had  bin  put  down  'pon  top  this 
cowslip  an'  drawed  'en  up." 

"Will  you  give  it  to  me?" 

She  did  so,  and  he  smelled  it. 

"D'you  know  that  the  green  of  the  cowslip  is 
the  most  beautiful  green  in  all  Nature,  Joan? 
Here,  I  have  a  flower,  too;  we  will  exchange  if 
you  like." 

He  took  a  scrap  of  blackthorn  bloom  from  his 
coat  and  held  it  out  to  her,  but  she  shrank  back- 
ward and  he  learned  something. 

"Please  not  that — truly  'tis  the  dreadfulest 
wicked  flower.  Doan't  'e  arsk  I  to  take  en." 

"Unlucky?" 

"Iss  fay!  Him  or  her  as  first  brings  black- 
thorn in  the  house  dies  afore  it  blows  again. 
Truth — solemn — us  all  knaws  it  down  in  these 
paarts.  'Tis  a  bewitched  thing — a  wicked  plant, 
an'  you  can  see  it  grawin'  all  humpetty-backed 
an'  bent  aii'  crooked.  Wance,  when  a  man 
killed  hisself,  they  did  use  to  bury  en  wheer 
roads  met  an'  put  a  blackthorn  stake  through 
enj  an'  it  allus  grawed  arter;  an'  that's  the 
worstest  sort  o'  all." 


54  LYING   PROPHETS 

"Dear,  dear,  I'm  glad  you  told  me,  Joan;  I 
will  not  wear  it,  nor  shall  you,"  he  said,  and 
flung  it  down  and  stamped  on  it  very  seriously. 

The  girl  was  gratified. 

"I  judge  jTou'm  a  furriner,  else  you'd  knawn 
'bout  the  wickedness  o'  blackthorn." 

"I  am.  Thank  you  very  much.  But  for  you 
I  should  have  gone  home  wearing  it.  That  puts 
me  in  your  debt,  Joan." 

"'Tain't  nothin',  awnly  there's  a  many  coori- 
ous  Garnish  things  like  that.  An'  coorious  cus- 
toms what  some  doan't  hold  with  an'  some 
does." 

She  sat  down  near  the  cliff  edge  with  her  back 
to  him,  and  he  smiled  to  himself  to  find  how 
quickly  his  mild  manners  and  reserve  had  put 
the  girl  at  her  ease.  She  looked  perfect  that 
afternoon  and  he  yearned  to  begin  painting  her; 
but  his  scheme  of  action  demanded  time  for  its 
perfect  fulfillment  and  ultimate  success.  He  let 
the  little  timorous  chatterbox  talk.  Her  voice 
was  soft  and  musical  as  the  cooing  of  a  wood- 
dove,  and  the  sweet  full  notes  chimed  in  strik- 
ing contrast  to  her  uncouth  speech.  But  Joan's 
diction  gave  pleasure  to  the  listener.  It  had 
freedom  and  wildness,  and  was  almost  wholly 
innocent  of  any  petrifying  educational  influ- 
ences. 

Joan,  for  her  part,  felt  at  ease.  The  man  was 
so  polite  and  so  humble.  He  thanked  her  for 
her  information  so  gratefully.  Moreover,  he 
evidently  cared  so  little  about  her  or  her  looks. 
She  felt  perfectly  safe,  for  it  was  easy  to  see 


LYING   PEOPHETS  55 

that  he  thought  more  of  the  gorse  than  any- 
thing. 

"My  faither's  agin  such  things  an'  sayin's," 
she  babbled  on,  "but  I  dunnaw.  They  seems 
truth  to  me,  an'  to  many  as  is  wiser  than  what 
I  be.  My  mother  b'lieved  in  'em,  an'  Joe  did, 
till  faither  turned  en  away  from  'em.  But 
when  us  plighted  troth,  I  made  en  jine  hands 
wi'  me  under  a  livin'  spring  o'  water,  though 
he  said  'twas  heathenish.  Awnly,  somehow,  I 
knawed  'twas  a  proper  thing  to  do." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  more  about  these  old 
customs  some  day,"  he  said,  as  though  Joan 
and  he  were  to  meet  often  in  the  future,  "and  I 
should  be  obliged  to  you  for  telling  me  about 
them,  because  I  always  delight  in  such  mat- 
ters." 

She  was  quicker  of  mind  than  he  thought, 
and  rose,  taking  his  last  remark  as  a  hint  that 
he  wished  to  be  alone. 

"Don't  go,  Joan,  unless  you  must.  I'm  a 
very  lonely  man,  and  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to 
me  to  hear  you  talk.  Look  here." 

She  approached  him,  and  he  showed  her  a 
pencil  sketch  now  perched  on  the  ease — a  drawl- 
ing considerably  larger  than  that  upon  which  he 
had  been  working  when  she  arrived. 

"This  is  a  rough  idea  of  my  picture.  It  is 
going  to  be  much  larger  though,  and  I  have 
sent  all  the  way  to  London  for  a  canvas  on 
which  to  paint  it." 

"'Twill  be  a  gert  big  picksher  then?" 

"So  big  that  I  think  I  must  try  and  get  some 


56  L.VING   PROPHETS 

thing  into  it  besides  the  gorse.  I  want  some- 
thing or  other  in  the  middle,  just  for  a  change. 
"What  could  I  paint  there?" 

"Idunnaw." 

"No  more  do  I.  I  wonder  how  that  little  white 
pony  tethered  yonder  would  do?" 

Joan  laughed. 

"You'd  never  get  the  likes  o'  him  to  bide  still 
for  'e." 

"No,  I'm  afraid  not;  and  I  doubt  if  I'm 
clever  enough  to  paint  him  either.  You  see, 
I'm  only  a  beginner — not  like  these  clever  artists 
who  can  draw  anything.  Well,  I  must  think : 
to-morrow  is  Sunday.  I  shall  begin  my  big 
picture  on  Monday  if  the  weather  keeps  kind. 
I  shall  paint  here,  in  the  open  air.  And  I  will 
bring  your  ship,  too,  if  you  care  to  take  the 
trouble  to  come  for  it." 

"Yes,  an'  thank  'e,  sir." 

"Not  at  all.  I  owe  you  thanks.  Just  think 
if  I  had  gone  home  with  that  horrid  black- 
thorn." 

He  turned  to  his  work  as  though  she  were  no 
longer  present  and  the  girl  prepared  to  depart. 

"I'll  bid  you  good-arternoon  now,  sir,"  she 
said  timidly. 

He  looked  up  with  surprise. 

"Haven't  you  gone,  Joan?  I  thought  you 
had  started.  Good-by  until  Monday.  Re- 
member, if  it  is  cold  or  rainy  I  shall  not  be 
here." 

The  girl  trotted  off;  and  when  she  had  gone 
Ban-on  drew  her  from  memory  in  the  center  of 


LYING   PROPHETS  5? 

his  sketch.  The  golden  glories  of  the  gorse  were 
destined  to  be  no  more  than  a  frame  for  some- 
thing fairer. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

COLD    COMFORT 

JOHN  B  AKRON  made  other  preparations  for  his 
picture  besides  those  detailed  to  Joan  Tregenza. 
He  designed  a  large  canvas  and  proposed  to  paint 
it  in  the  open  air  according  to  his  custom.  His 
health  had  improved,  and  the  sustained  splen- 
dor of  the  spring  weather  flattered  hopes  that, 
his  model  once  won,  the  work  he  proposed  would 
grow  into  an  accomplished  fact.  There  was  no 
cottage  where  he  might  house  his  picture  and 
materials  within  half  a  mile  of  Gorse  Point,  but 
a  granite  cow-byre  rose  considerably  nearer,  at 
a  corner  of  an  upland  field.  Wind- worn  and 
lichen-stained  it  stood,  situated  not  more  than 
two  hundred  yards  from  the  spot  on  which  Bar- 
ren's picture  was  to  be  painted.  A  pathway  to 
outlying  farms  cut  the  fields  hard  by  the  byre, 
and  about  it  lay  implements  of  husbandry — a 
chain  harrow  and  a  rusty  plow.  Black,  tar- 
pitched  double  doors  gave  entrance  to  the  shed, 
and  light  entered  from  a  solitary  window  now 
roughly  nailed  up  from  the  outside  with  boards. 
A  padlock  fastened  the  door,  but,  by  wrenching 


58  LYING    PROPHETS 

down  the  covering  of  the  window,  Barren  got 
sight  of  the  interior.  A  smell  of  vermin  and 
decay  rose  from  the  inner  darkness ;  then,  as  his 
eyes  focused  the  gloom,  he  noted  a  dry,  spa- 
cious chamber  likely  enough  to  answer  his  pur- 
pose. Brown  litter  of  last  year's  fern  filled  one 
corner,  and  in  it  was  marked  a  lair  as  of  some 
medium-sized  beast;  elsewhere  a  few  sacks  with 
spades  and  picks  and  a  small  pile  of  potatoes  ap- 
peared :  the  roots  were  all  sprouting  feebly  from 
white  eyes,  as  though  they  knew  spring  held  the 
world,  though  neither  sunshine  warmed  them 
nor  soft  earth  aided  their  struggle  for  life.  Here 
the  man  might  well  keep  his  canvas  and  other 
matters.  Assuming  that  temporary  possession 
of  the  shed  was  possible,  his  property  would  cer- 
tainly be  safe  enough  there ;  for  artists  are  re- 
spected in  and  about  Newlyn,  and  their  needs 
considered  when  possible.  A  farm,  known  as 
Middle  Hemyll,  showed  gray  chimneys  above 
the  fields,  half  a  mile  distant,  and,  after  finding 
the  shed,  Barron  proceeded  thither  to  learn  its 
ownership.  The  master  of  Middle  Hemyll 
speedily  enlightened  him,  and  the  visitor  learned 
that  not  only  did  he  speak  to  the  possessor  of 
the  cow-byre,  but  that  Farmer  Ford  was  a  keen 
supporter  of  art,  and  would  be  happy  to  rent  his 
outhouse  for  a  moderate  consideration. 

"The  land  ban't  under  pasture  now,  an'  the 
plaace  ed'n  much  used  just  this  minute,  so 
you'm  welcome  if  you  mind  to.  My  auld  goat 
did  live  theer  wance,  but  er's  dead  this  long 
time.  Maybe  you  seed  the  carcass  of  en,  out- 


LYING   PROPHETS  59 

side?  I'll  have  the  byre  cleared  come  to-mor- 
rer;  an'  if  so  be  you  wants  winders  in  the  roof, 
same  as  other  paintin'  gents,  you'll  have  to  put 
'em  theer  wi'  your  awn  money." 

Barren  explained  that  he  only  needed  the  shed 
as  a  storehouse  for  his  picture  and  tools. 

"Just  so,  just  so.  Then  you'll  find  a  bwoy 
wi'  the  key  theer  to-morrer,  an'  all  vitty;  an' 
you  can  pay  in  advancement  or  arter,  as  you 
please  to.  Us'll  say  half-a-crown  a  week,  if 
that'll  soot  'e." 

The  listener  produced  half-a-sovereign,  much 
to  Farmer  Ford's  gratification,  and  asked  that 
a  lad  or  man  might  be  found  to  return  with  him 
there  and  then  to  the  shed. 

"I  am  anxious  to  see  the  place  and  have  it  in 
order  before  I  go  back  to  Newlyn,"  he  explained. 
"I  will  pay  you  extra  for  the  necessary  labor,  and 
it  should  not  take  above  an  hour." 

"No  more  'twill,  an'  I'll  come  'long  with  'e 
myself  this  minute,"  answered  the  other. 

Getting  a  key  to  the  padlock,  and  a  big  birch 
broom,  he  returned  with  Barren,  and  soon  had 
the  doors  of  the  disused  byre  thrown  open  to  the 
air. 

"I  shut  en  up  when  the  auld  goat  went  dead. 
Theer  a  used  to  lie  in  the  corner,  but  now  he' m 
outside,  an'  I  doubt  the  piskeys,  what  they  talks 
'bout,  be  mighty  savage  wi'  me  for  not  buryin' 
the  beast,  'cause  all  fairies  is  'dieted  to  goats, 
they  do  say,  an'  mighty  fond  o'  the  milk  of 
'em." 

Farmer  Ford  soon  cleared  the  place  of  pota- 


60  LYING   PROPHETS 

toen,  sacks,  and  tools.     Then,  taking  his  broom, 
he  made  a  clean  sweep  of  dust  and  dirt. 

' '  Theer's  a  many  more  rats  here  than  I  kna wed 
seemin'ly,"  he  said,  as  he  examined  a  sink  in  the 
stones  of  the  floor,  used  for  draining  the  stalls ; 
"they  come  up  here  for  sartain,  an'  runs  out 
'long  the  heydge  to  the  mangel-wurzel  mound, 
I  lay." 

Without,  evidences  of  the  vermin  were  clear 
enough.  Long  hardened  tracks,  patted  down 
by  many  paws,  ran  this  way  and  that;  and  the 
main  rat  thoroughfare  extended,  as  the  farmer 
foretold,  to  a  great  mound  where,  stowed  snugly 
in  straw  under  earth,  lay  packed  the  remains  of 
a  mangel-wurzel  crop.  At  one  end  the  store 
had  been  opened  and  drawn  upon  for  winter 
use;  but  a  goodly  pile  of  the  great  tawny  globes 
still  remained,  small  lemon-colored  leaves  sprout- 
ing from  them.  Farmer  Ford,  however,  viewed 
the  treasure  without  satisfaction. 

"Us  killed  a  power  o'  sheep  wi'  they  blareted 
roots  last  winter,*'  he  said.  "You'd  never  think 
now  as  the  frost  could  touch  'em,  but  it  did 
though,  awin'  to  the  wicked  long  winter.  It 
got  to  'em,  sure  'nough,  an'  theer  was  frost  iu 
'em  when  us  gived  'em  to  the  sheep,  an'  it  rotte  1 
theer  innards,  poor  twoads,  an'  they  died,  moiv'-i 
:i  score." 

Barren  listened  thoughtfully  to  these  detail 
then  pointed  to  an  ugly  sight  beyond  the  wurzel 
mound. 

"I  should  like  that  removed,"  he  said. 

It  was  the  dead  goat,  withered  to  a  mummy 


LYING   PROPHETS  61 

almost,  with  horns  and  hide  intact,  and  a  rat- 
way  bored  through  the  body  of  the  beast  under 
a  tunnel  of  its  ribs. 

"Jimmery!  to  see  what  them  varmints  have 
done  to  'en!  But  I'll  bury  what's  left  right  on 
en;  an'  I'll  stop  the  sink  in  the  house,  then 
you'll  be  free  of  'em." 

These  things  the  farmer  did,  and  presently 
departed,  promising  to  revisit  the  spot  ere  long 
with  some  dogs  and  a  ferret  or  two.  So  Barren 
was  left  master  of  the  place.  He  found  it  dry, 
weather-proof  and  well  suited  to  his  require- 
ments in  every  respect.  The  concerns  which  he 
had  ordered  from  London  would  be  with  him  by 
Saturday  night  if  all  went  well,  and  he  decided 
that  they  should  be  conveyed  to  the  byre  at  an 
early  hour  on  Monday  morning. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  half  a  dozen 
men,  with  Barren  and  Murdoch  among  them, 
strolled  into  Brady's  great  whitewashed  studio 
to  see  and  criticise  his  academy  picture  which 
was  finished.  Everybody  declared  that  the  art- 
ist had  excelled  himself  in  "The  End  of  the  Voy- 
age." It  represented  a  sweep  of  the  rocky  coast 
by  the  Lizard,  a  wide  gray  sand,  left  naked  by 
the  tide,  with  the  fringe  of  a  heavy  sea  churn- 
ing on  it,  and  sea-fowl  strutting  here  and  there. 
In  the  foreground,  half1  buried  under  tangles  of 
brown  weed  torn  from  the  rocks  by  past  storms, 
lay  a  dead  sailor,  and  a  big  herring-gull,  with 
its  head  on  one  side  and  a  world  of  inquiry  in 
its  yellow  eyes,  was  looking  at  him.  Tremen- 
dous vigor  marked  the  work,  and  only  a  Brady 


62  LYING    PROPHETS 

could  have  come  safely  through  the  difficulties 
which  had  been  surmounted  in  its  creation. 
Everybody  sang  praises,  and  Barren  nodded 
warm  approval,  but  said  nothing  until  chal- 
lenged. 

"Now,  find  the  faults,  then  tell  me  what's 
good,"  said  the  gigantic  painter.  He  stood 
there,  burly,  hearty,  physically  splendid — the 
man  of  all  others  in  that  throng  who  might 
have  been  pointed  to  as  the  creator  of  the  solemn 
gray  picture  before  them. 

"Leave  fault-finding  to  Fleet  Street,"  said 
Barren;  "let  the  press  people  tell  you  where 
you  are  wrong.  I  am  no  critic  and  I  know 
what  a  mountain  of  hard  work  went  to  this." 

"That's  all  right,  old  man;  never  mind  the 
work — or  me.  Be  impartial." 

"Why  should  I?  To  be  impartial,  as  this 
world  wags,  is  to  be  friendless." 

"Good  Lord!  d'you  think  I  mind  mauling? 
There's  something  wrong  or  you  wouldn't  be 
so  deucedly  evasive.  Out  with  it!" 

"Well,  your  sailor's  not  dead." 

Brady  roared  with  laughter. 

"Man!  the  poor  devil's  been  in  the  water  a 
week!" 

"Not  he.  'Tis  a  mistake  in  nine  painted 
corpses  out  of  ten.  If  you  want  to  paint  a 
drowned  man,  wait  till  you've  seen  one  close. 
That  sailor  in  the  seaweed's  asleep.  Sleep  is 
graceful,  remember;  death  by  drowning  is  ; 
orally  u^ly  — stiff,  stark,  lii.i»-»ns.  ••y«-l«-^,  lisli- 
;i  \veek  after  the  event.  But  what  does 


LYING   PROPHETS  63 

it  matter?  You've  painted  a  great  picture. 
That  sea,  with  the  circular  swirl,  as  each  wave 
goes  back  into  the  belly  of  the  next,  is  well  done; 
and  those  lumps  of  spume  fluttering  above  water- 
mark— that  was  finely  noted.  Easy  to  write 
down  in  print,  but  difficult  as  the  fiend  to  paint. 
And  the  picture  is  full  of  wind  too.  Your  troubles 
are  amply  repaid  and  I  congratulate  you.  A 
man  who  could  paint  that  will  go  as  far  as  he 
likes." 

The  simple  Brady  forgot  the  powder  in  swal- 
lowing the  jam,  Barron  had  touched  those 
things  in  his  work  which  were  precious  to  him. 
His  impulsive  nature  took  fire,  and  there  was  al- 
most a  qui  ver  of  emotion  in  his  big  voice  as  he 
answered : 

"Damn  it,  you're  a  brick!  I'd  sooner  hear 
you  praise  those  lumps  of  sea-spume,  racing 
over  the  sand  there,  than  see  my  picture  on  the 
line." 

But  sentiment  was  strange  to  John  Barren's 
impersonal  nature,  and  he  froze. 

"Another  fault  exists  which  probably  nobody 
will  tell  you  but  me.  Your  seaweed's  great, 
and  you  knew  it  by  heart  before  you  painted  it 
— that  I'll  swear  to,  but  your  sleeper  there  would 
never  lie  in  the  line  of  it  as  you  have  him.  Re- 
flect: the  sea  must  float  the  light  weed  after  it 
could  move  him  no  more.  He  should  be  stogged 
in  the  sand  nearer  the  sea." 

Brady,  however,  contested  this  criticism,  and 
so  the  talk  wore  on  until  the  men  separated. 
But  the  Irishman  called  on  Barron  after  midday 


t-4  LYING    PROPHETS 

dinner  and  together  they  strolled  through  New- 
lyn  toward  the  neighboring  village.  Chance 
brought  them  face  to  face  with  two  persons 
more  vital  to  the  narrative  than  themselves, 
and,  pausing  to  chronicle  the  event  of  the  meet- 
ing, we  may  leave  the  artists  and  follow  those 
whom  they  encountered. 

Gray  Michael  kept  ashore  on  Sundays,  and  to- 
day, having  come  off  the  sea  at  dawn,  was  not 
again  putting  forth  until  next  morning.  He 
had  attended  meeting  with  his  wife,  his  daugh- 
ter and  his  son ;  he  had  dined  also,  and  was  now 
walking  over  to  Mousehole  that  he  might  bring 
some  religious  comfort  to  a  sorely  stricken  Luke 
Gospeler — a  young  sheep  but  lately  won  to  the 
fold  and  who  now  lay  at  the  point  of  death. 
Joan  accompanied  him,  and  upon  the  way  they 
met  John  Barren  and  his  companion.  The  girl 
blushed  hotly  and  then  chilled  with  a  great  dis- 
appointment, for  Barren's  eyes  were  on  the  sea; 
he  was  talking  as  he  passed  by,  and  he  appar- 
ently saw  neither  her  nor  her  Sunday  gown; 
which  circumstance  was  a  sorrow  to  Joan.  But 
in  reality  Barren  missed  nothing.  He  had  shiv- 
ered at  her  green  dress  and  poor  finery  long  be- 
fore she  reached  him .  Her  garb  ruffled  his  senses 
nnd  left  him  wounded. 

"There  goes  your  beauty,"  laughed  Brady; 
"how  would  you  like  to  paint  her  in  that  frock 
with  those  sinful  blue  flowers  in  her  hat?" 

"Nature  must  weep  to  see  the  bizarre  carni- 
v.il  these  people  enjoy  on  the  Seventh  Day,"  an- 
sworod  the  other.  "Their  duns  and  drabs,  their 


LYING   PROPHETS  65 

russets  and  tawny  tones  of  red  and  orange,  are 
of  their  environment,  the  proper  skins  for  their 
bodies ;  but  to  think  of  that  girl  brightening  the 
eyes  of  a  hundred  louts  by  virtue  of  those  fine 
feathers !  Dream  of  her  in  the  Stone  Age,  clad 
in  a  petticoat  torn  from  a  wolf,  with  her  straw- 
colored  hair  to  her  waist  and  a  necklace  of  shells 
or  wild  beasts'  teeth  between  her  breasts !  And 
the  man — her  father,  I  suppose — what  a  picture 
his  cursed  broadcloth  and  soft  black  hat  make 
of  him — like  the  head  of  a  patriarch  stuck  on  a 
tailor's  dummy." 

Meanwhile,  ignorant  of  these  startling  criti- 
cisms, Mr.  Tregenza  and  his  daughter  pursued 
their  road,  and  presently  stopped  before  a  cot- 
tage in  one  of  the  cobble-paved  alley-ways  of 
Mousehole.  A  worn  old  woman  opened  the 
door  and  courtesied  to  Gray  Michael.  He 
wished  her  good-afternoon,  then  entered  the 
cottage,  first  bidding  Joan  return  in  an  hour. 
She  had  friends  near  at  hand,  and  hurried  off, 
glad  to  escape  the  sight  of  sickness  and  the 
prayers  she  knew  that  her  father  would  pres- 
ently deliver. 

"How  be  en?"  inquired  the  fisherman,  and 
the  widowed  mother  of  the  patient  answered : 

"Better,  I  do  pray.  Er  was  in  the  doldrums 
issterday  an'  bad  by  night  also,  a  dwaling  an* 
moaning  gashly,  but,  the  Lard  be  praised,  he'm 
better  in  mind  by  now,  an'  I  do  think  'tis  more 
along  of  Bible-readin'  than  all  the  doctor's 
traade  *  he've  took.  I  read  to  en  'bout  that 

*  Traade — Physic. 


66  LYING    I'KOPHETS 

theer  bwoy,  the  awnly  son  o'  his  mother,  an* 
her  a  widder-wumman,  an'  how  as  the  Lard 
brought  en  round  arter  he'd  gone  dead." 

Gray  Michael  sniffed  and  made  no  comment. 

"I'll  see  en  an'  put  up  a  prayer  or  so,"  he 
said. 

"An'  the  Lard'll  reward  it,  Mr.  Tregenza." 

Young  Albert  Vallack  greeted  the  visitor  with 
even  greater  reverence  than  his  mother  had  done. 
He  and  the  old  woman  were  Falmouth  folks  and 
had  drifted  Westerly  upon  the  father's  death, 
until  chance  anchored  them  in  Newlyn.  Now 
the  lad — a  dissolute  youth  enough,  until  sudden 
illness  had  frightened  him  to  religion — was  dy- 
ing of  consumption,  and  dying  fast,  though  as 
yet  he  knew  it  not. 

"  'Tis  handsome  in  you,  a  comin'  to  see  the 
likes  o'  me,"  said  the  patient,  flushing  with  sat- 
isfaction. "You'm  like  the  stickler  at  a  wras'- 
lin'  match,  Mister  Tregenza,  sir;  you  sees  fair 
play  betwixt  God  an'  man." 

"So  you'm  better,  Albert,  your  mother  sez." 

"Iss,  a  bit.  Theer's  more  kick  an'  sprawl  * 
in  me  than  theer  'ave  bin ;  an'  I  feels  more  hope- 
ful like  'bout  the  future." 

Self-righteousness  in  a  new-fledged  Luke  Gos- 
peler,  who  had  been  of  the  fold  but  three  months 
and  whose  previous  record  was  extremely  unsat- 
isfactory, irritated  Gray  Michael  not  a  little. 

"Bwoy!"  he  said  loudly,  "doan't  'e  be  de- 
ceived that  way.  'Gird  'e  wi'  sackcloth,  lament 

*  Kick  nn'  ttprawl— Strength,  vitality. 


LYING   PROPHETS  67 

and  howl ;  for  the  fierce  anger  o'  the  Lard  is  not 
turned  back  from  us.'  Three  months  o'  right- 
eousness is  a  purty  bad  set  off  'gainst  twenty 
years  o'  sin,  an'  it  doan't  become  'e  to  feel  hope- 
ful, I  'sure  ye." 

The  sick  man's  color  paled,  and  a  certain  note 
as  of  triumph  in  his  voice  died  out  of  it.  His 
mother  had  left  them,  feeling  that  her  presence 
might  hinder  conversation  and  lessen  the  com- 
fort which  Mr.  Tregenza  had  brought. 

"I  did  ought  to  be  chap-fall'n,  I  s'pose." 

"Iss,  you  did,  my  son,  nobody  more'n  you. 
Maybe  you'll  live;  maybe  you'll  die;  but  keep 
humble.  I  doan't  wish  to  deceive  'e.  Us  ain't 
had  time  to  make  no  certainty  'bout  things. 
You'm  in  the  Lard's  hand,  an'  it  becomes  'e 
to  sing  small,  an'  remember  what  your  life's 
bin." 

The  other  grew  uneasy  and  his  voice  faltered 
while  he  still  fought  for  a  happy  eternity. 

"I'd  felt  like  'twas  all  right  arter  what  mother 
read." 

"Not  so.  God's  a  just  God  'fore  everything. 
Theer  ed'n  no  favorin'  wi'  Him.  I  hopes  you'll 
live  this  many  a  day,  Vallack ;  an'  then,  when 
your  hour  comes,  you'll  have  piled  up  a  tidy 
record  an'  can  go  wi'  a  certainty  faacin'  you. 
Seems  you'm  better,  an'  us  at  chapel's  prayed 
hot  an'  strong  to  the  Throne  that  you  might  be 
left  to  work  out  your  salvation  now  your  foot's 
'pon  the  right  road." 

"But  if  I  dies,  mister?" 

"  'The  prayer  of  the  righteous  man  availeth 


68  LYING   PROPHETS 

much,'  "  answered  Gray  Michael  evasively.  "I 
be  come,"  he  added,  "to  read  the  Scriptures 
to  'e." 

"You  all  prayed  for  me,  sir?" 

"Iss,  every  man,  but  theer  was  no  mincin' 
matters,  Albert.  Us  was  arskin'  for  a  miser- 
able sinner,  a  lost  sheep  awnly  just  strayed 
back,  an*  we  put  it  plain  as  that  was  so." 

"  'Tweer  mighty  kind  o'  the  Luke  Gosp'lers, 
sir." 

"  'Twas  their  dooty.  Now  I  be  gwaine  to 
read  the  Book." 

"I  feels  that  uneasy  now,"  whined  the  suf- 
ferer, in  a  voice  where  fear  spoke  instead  of 
hope,  "but  I  s'pose  'tis  a  sign  o'  graace  I  should 
be?" 

"Iss,  'tis.  I've  corned  to  tell  'e  the  truth,  for 
'tis  ill  as  a  man  should  be  blind  to  facts  on  what 
may  be  his  last  bed  'bove  the  airth.  Listen  to 
this,  my  son,  an'  if  theer's  anything  you  doan't 
onderstand,  arek  me  an'  I'll  thraw  light  'pon  it." 

He  read,  with  loud,  slow  voice,  the  fifty-fifth 
chapter  of  Isaiah,  and  that  glorious  clarion  of 
great  promise  gave  Michael  the  lie  and  drowned 
his  own  religious  opinions  as  thunder  drowns 
the  croaking  of  marsh  frogs;  but  he  knew  it 
not.  The  brighter  burned  his  own  shining  light, 
the  blacker  the  shadows  it  threw  upon  the  future 
of  all  sinners. 

As  Tregenza  finished  and  put  down  his  Bible, 
the  other  spoke  and  quoted  oap'rly  : 

"'Incline  your  ear  an'  come  unto  Me;  fear, 
an'  your  sawl  shall  live!'  Theer  do  seem  a  hope 


LYING   PROPHETS  69 

in  that  if  itecTn  awver-bold  me  thinkin'  so?"  he 
asked. 

"That's  like  them  Church  o'  Englanders,  a 
tearin'  wan  text  away  from  t'others  an'  readin' 
it  accordin'  as  they  pleases.  I'll  expound  it  all 
to  wance,  as  a  God-fearin'  man  did  ought  to 
treat  the  Scriptures." 

Gray  Michael's  exposition  illustrated  nothing 
beyond  his  own  narrow  intellectual  limitations. 
His  cold  cloud  of  words  obscured  the  prophet's 
sunshine,  and  the  light  went  out  of  the  dying 
man's  eyes,  leaving  only  alarm.  He  trembled 
on  the  brink  of  the  horrid  truth;  he  heard  it 
thinly  veiled  in  the  other's  stern  utterance,  saw 
it  looking  from  his  hard  blue  eyes.  After  the 
sermon,  silence  followed,  broken  by  Vallack, 
who  coughed  once  and  again,  then  raised  him- 
self and  braced  his  heart  to  the  tremendous 
question  that  demanded  answering. 

"I  wants  your  awn  feelin'  like,  mister.  I 
must  have  it.  I  caan't  sleep  no  more  wi'out 
knawin'  the  best  or  worst.  You  be  the  justest 
man  ever  I  seed  or  heard  tell  on  out  the  Script- 
ures. An'  I  wants  'e  to  gimme  your  opinion 
like.  S'pose  you  was  the  Judge  an'  I  corned 
afore  'e  an'  the  Books  was  theer  and  you'd  read 
'em  an'  had  to  conclude  'pon  'em — ?" 

The  fisherman  reflected.  Vallack's  proposi- 
tion did  not  strike  him  as  particularly  grotesque. 
He  felt  it  was  a  natural  question,  and  he  only 
regretted  that  it  had  been  put,  because,  though 
he  had  driven  more  than  one  young  man  to 
righteousness  along  the  path  of  terror,  in  this 


70  LYING    PROPHETS 

present  case  the  truth  came  too  late  save  to  add 
another  horror  to  death.  He  believed  in  all  sin- 
cerity that  as  surely  as  the  young  man  before 
him  presently  died,  so  surely  would  he  be 
damned,  but  he  saw  no  particular  object  in 
stating  the  fact.  Such  intelligence  might  tell 
upon  Vallack's  physical  condition — a  thing  of 
all  others  to  be  avoided,  for  Gray  Michael  held 
that  the  sufferer's  only  chance  of  a  happy  eter- 
nity was  increased  and  lengthened  opportunity 
in  time. 

"It  ed'n  for  me  to  sit  in  the  Judgment  Seat, 
Albert.  'Vengeance  is  mine,  sayeth  the  Lard.' 
You  must  allus  hold  in  mind  that  theer's  mighty 
few  saved  alive,  best  o'  times.  Many  be  called, 
but  few  chosen.  Men  go  down  to  the  graave 
every  second  o'  the  day  an'  night,  but  if  you 
could  see  the  sawls  a  streamin'  away,  thicker'n 
a  cloud  of  starlings,  you'd  find  a  mass,  black  as 
a  storm,  went  down  long,  an'  awnly  just  a  sum- 
mer cloud  like  o'  the  blessed  riz  up.  Hell's  big- 
ger'n  Heaven ;  an'  er's  need  to  be,  for  Heaven's 
like  to  be  a  lonely  plaace,  when  all's  said.  I 
won't  speak  no  more  'bout  that  subjec*.  'Tin 
good  fashion  weather  for  'e  just  now,  an  us'll 
hope  as  you  ban't  gwaine  to  die  for  many  a 
day." 

"Say  it  out,  mister,  say  it  out.  I  knaws 
what  you  means.  You  reckons  if  I  gaws  I'm 
lost." 

"My  poor  sawl,  justice  is  justice;  an'  the 
Lard's  all  for  justice  an'  no  less.  Theer's  no 
favorin'  wi'  Him,  Albert." 


LYING   PROPHETS  71 

"But  mightn't  He  favor  the  whole  bilin'  of 
us — good'n  bad — 'cause  He  made  us?" 

"Surely  not.  Wheer's  the  justice  o'  that?  If 
He  done  that,  how'd  the  godly  get  their  fair 
dues — eh?  Be  the  righteous  man  to  share  God's 
Heaven  wi'  publicans  an'  sinners?  That  ed'n 
justice  anyhow.  Don't  fret,  lad;  tears  won't 
mend  bad  years.  Bide  quiet  an'  listen  to  me 
whiles  I  pray  for  'e." 

The  man  in  the  bed  had  grown  very  white, 
his  eyes  burned  wildly  out  of  a  shrunken  face, 
and  he  gripped  the  sheets  and  shivered  in  pure 
physical  terror. 

"I  caan't  die,  I  caan't  die,  not  yet,"  he 
groaned,  "pray  to  the  Lard  to  keep  me  from 
dyin'  yet  a  while,  mister.  Arsk  en  to  give  me 
just  a  lil  time,  'cause  I'm  that  sorry  for  my 
scarlet  sins." 

Thereupon  Michael  knelt,  clasped  his  hands 
so  close  that  the  bent  finger-joints  grew  white, 
raised  his  massive  head  upward  and  prayed  with 
his  eyes  closed.  The  intercession  for  life  ended, 
he  rose  up,  shook  Vallack  by  the  hand,  and  so 
departed. 

"Allus,  when  you've  got  the  chance,  bear  the 
balm  o'  Gilead.  to  a  sinner's  couch,"  he  said  to 
his  daughter  as  they  walked  home.  "  'Tis  the 
duty  of  man  an'  maid  to  spread  the  truth  an' 
bring  peace  to  the  troubled,  an'  strength  to  the 
weak-hearted,  an'  rise  up  them  that  fall." 

A  week  later  Mr.  Tregenza  heard  how  Albert 
Vallack  had  burst  a  blood-vessel  and  died,  fight- 
ing horribly  with  awful  invisible  terrors. 


72  LYING    PROPHETS 

"Another  sawl  gone  down  into  the  Pit,"  he 
said.  "I  reckon  fewer  an'  fewer  be  chosen 
every  year  as  the  world  do  grow  older  an*  riper 
for  the  last  fires.*1 


CHAPTER  SIX 

FAIRY    STORIES 

JOAN  found  her  sketch  waiting  for  her  the 
next  day  when  she  reached  Gorse  Point  about 
eleven  o'clock;  and  she  also  discovered  John 
Barren  with  a  large  canvas  before  him.  He 
had  constructed  his  picture  and  already  made 
many  drawings  for  it.  Now  he  knew  exactly 
what  he  wanted,  and  he  designed  to  paint  Joan 
standing  looking  out  at  a  distant  sea  which 
would  be  far  behind  the  spectator  of  the  picture. 
"When  she  arrived,  on  a  fine  morning  and  mild, 
Barren  rose  from  his  camp-stool,  lifted  up  a  lit- 
tle canvas  which  stood  framed  at  his  side  and 
presented  it  to  her.  The  sketch  in  oils  of  the 
"Anna'*  was  cleverer  than  Joan  could  possibly 
know,  but  she  took  no  small  delight  in  it  and  in 
the  setting  of  rough  deal  brightly  gilded. 

"Sure  'tis  truly  good  of  *e,  sir!" 

"You  are  more  than  welcome.  Only  let  me 
say  one  word,  Joan.  Keep  your  picture  hidden 
away  until  Joe  comes  back  from  sea  and  mar- 


LYING   PROPHETS  73 

ries  you.  From  what  you  tell  me,  your  father 
might  not  like  you  to  have  this  trifle,  and  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  annoy  him." 

"I  waddun'  gwaine  to  show  en,"  she  con- 
fessed. "I  shall  store  the  picksher  away  as  you 
sez." 

"You  are  wise.  Now  look  here,  doesn't  this 
promise  to  be  a  big  affair?  The  gorse  will  be 
nearly  as  large  as  life,  and  I've  been  wondering 
ever  so  long  what  I  shall  put  in  the  middle ;  and 
whatever  do  you  think  I've  thought  of?" 

"I  dunnaw.    That  white  pony  us  saw,  p'raps?" 

"No;  something  much  prettier.  How  would 
it  do,  d'you  think,  if  you  stood  here  in  front  of 
the  gorse,  just  to  fill  up  the  middle  piece  of  the 
picture?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!     My  faither— " 

"You  misunderstand,  Joan.  I  don't  want  a 
picture  of  you,  you  know;  I'm  going  to  paint 
the  gorse.  But  if  you  just  stood  here,  you'd 
make  a  sort  of  contrast  with  your  brown  frock. 
Not  a  portrait  at  all,  only  just  a  figure  to  help 
the  color.  Besides,  you  mustn't  think  I'm  an 
artist,  I  shouldn't  go  selling  the  picture  or  hang- 
ing it  up  for  everybody  to  stare  at  it.  I'm  cer- 
tain your  father  wouldn't  mind,  and  I'll  tell  him 
all  about  it  afterward,  if  you  like." 

She  hesitated  and  reflected  with  trouble  in  her 
eyes,  while  Barren  quietly  took  the  picture  he 
had  brought  her  and  wrapped  it  up  in  a  piece  of 
paper.  His  object  was  to  remind  her  without 
appearing  to  do  so  of  her  obligation  to  him,  and 
Joan  was  clever  enough  to  take  the  hint,  though 


74  LYING    PROPHETS 

not  clever  enough  to  see  that  it  was  an  inten- 
tional one. 

"Would  it  be  a  long  job,  sir?"  she  asked  at 
length. 

"Yes,  it  would;  because  I'm  a  slow  painter 
and  rather  stupid.  But  I  should  think  it  very, 
very  kind  of  you.  I'm  not  strong,  you  know, 
and  I  daresay  this  is  the  last  picture  I  shall  ever 
paint." 

"You  ed'n  strong,  sir?" 

"Not  at  all." 

She  was  silent,  and  a  great  sympathy  rose  in 
her  girl's  heart,  for  frail  health  always  made  her 
sad. 

"You  don't  judge  'tis  wrong  then  for  a  maiden 
to  be  painted  in  a  picksher?" 

"Certainly  not,  Joan.  I  should  never  suggest 
such  a  thing  to  you  if  I  thought  it  was  in  the 
least  wrong.  I  know  it  isn't  wrong." 

"I  seed  you  issterday,"  she  said,  changing 
the  subject  suddenly,  "but  you  dedn  see  me, 
did  'e?" 

"Yes,  I  did,  and  your  father.  He  is  a  grand- 
looking  man.  By  the  way,  Joan,  I  think  I  never 
told  you  my  name.  I'm  called  John;  that's 
short  and  simple,  isn't  it?" 

"Mister  Jan,"  she  said. 

"No,  not  'mister' — just  'Jan,'  "  he  answered, 
adopting  her  pronunciation.  "I  don't  call  you 
'Miss'  Joan." 

She  looked  at  once  uncomfortable  and 
pleased. 

"We  must  be  friends,"  the  man  continued 


LYING   PROPHETS  75 

calmly,  "now  you  have  promised  to  let  me  put 
you  here  among  the  gorse  bushes." 

"Sure,  I  dunnaw  'bout  the  picksher,  Mister 
Jan." 

"Well,  you  would  be  doing  me  a  great  service. 
I  want  to  paint  you  very  much  and  I  think  you 
will  be  kind." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  with  a  steady,  inquir- 
ing glance,  and  Joan  experienced  a  new  emo- 
tion. Joe  had  never  looked  like  that;  nor  yet 
her  father.  She  felt  a  will  stronger  than  her 
own  was  busy  with  her  inclinations.  Volition 
remained  free,  and  yet  she  doubted  whether  un- 
der any  circumstances  could  she  refuse  his  peti- 
tion. As  it  happened,  however,  she  already 
liked  the  man.  He  was  so  respectful  and  po- 
lite. Moreover,  she  felt  sad  to  hear  that  he 
suffered  in  health.  He  would  not  ask  her  to 
do  wrong  and  she  felt  certain  that  she  might 
trust  him.  A  trembling  wish  and  a  longing  to 
comply  with  his  request  already  mastered  her 
mind. 

"You'm  sure — gospel  truth — theer  ed'n  no 
harm  in  it?" 

"Trust  me." 

In  five  minutes  he  had  posed  her  as  he  wished 
and  was  drawing,  while  every  word  he  spoke 
put  Joan  more  at  her  ease.  The  spice  of  ad- 
venture and  secrecy  fired  her  and  she  felt  the 
spirit  of  romance  in  her  blood,  though  she  knew 
no  name  for  it.  Here  was  a  secret  delight  knock- 
ing at  the  gray  threshold  of  every-day  life — an 
adventure  which  might  last  for  many  days. 


76  LYING    PROPHETS 

Barren,  to  touch  the  woman  in  her  if  he  could, 
harped  upon  her  gown  and  the  color  of  it,  on 
her  shoes  and  sun-bonnet — on  everything  but 
herself.  Presently  he  reaped  his  reward. 

"Ban't  you  gwaine  to  paint  my  faace  as  well, 
Mister  Jan." 

"Yes,  if  I  can.  But  your  eyes  are  blue,  and 
blue  eyes  are  hard  to  paint  well.  Yours  are  so 
very  blue,  Joan.  Didn't  Joe  ever  tell  you  that?" 

"No— that's  all  fulishness." 

"Nothing  that's  true  is  foolish.  Now  I'm  go- 
ing to  make  some  little  sketches  of  you,  so  as  to 
get  each  fold  and  shadow  in  your  dress  right." 

Barren  drew  rapidly,  and  Joan— ever  ready 
to  talk  to  a  willing  listener  when  her  confidence 
was  won — prattled  on,  turning  the  conversation 
as  usual  to  the  matters  she  loved.  Upon  her 
favorite  subjects  she  dared  not  open  her  mouth 
at  home,  and  even  her  lover  refused  to  listen  to 
the  legends  of  the  land,  but  they  were  part  of 
the  girl's  life  notwithstanding,  drawn  into  her 
blood  from  her  mother,  a  thousand  times  more 
real  and  precious  than  even  the  promised  heaven 
of  Luke  Gospeldom,  not  to  be  wholly  smothered 
at  any  time.  Occasionally,  indeed,  uneasy  fears 
that  discussion  of  such  concerns  was  absolutely 
sinful  kept  her  dumb  for  a  week,  then  the  relig- 
ious wave  swept  on,  and  Cornish  folk-lore,  with 
its  splendor  and  romance,  again  filled  her  heart 
and  bubbled  from  her  lips.  Her  little  stories 
pleased  Barren  mightily.  Excitement  height- 
ened Joan's  beauty.  Her  absolute  innocence 
at  the  age  of  seventeen  struck  him  as  remark- 


LYING   PROPHETS  77 

able.  It  seemed  curious  that  a  child  born  in  a 
cottage,  where  realities  and  facts  are  apt  to 
roughly  front  boy  and  girl  alike,  should  know 
so  little.  She  was  a  beautiful,  primitive  creat- 
ure, with  strange  store  of  fairy  fable  in  her 
mind;  a  treasury  which  brought  color  and  joy 
into  life.  So  she  prattled,  and  the  man  painted. 

Pure  artistic  interest  filled  Barron's  brain  at 
this  season;  not  a  shadow  of  passion  made  his 
pencil  shaky  or  his  eye  dim ;  he  began  to  learn 
the  girl  with  as  little  emotion  as  he  had  learned 
the  gorse.  He  asked  her  to  unfasten  the  top 
button  of  her  dress  that  he  might  see  the  lines 
of  her  plump  throat,  and  she  complied  without 
hesitation  or  ceasing  from  her  chatter.  He  noted 
where  the  tan  on  her  neck  faded  to  white  under 
her  dress,  and  occupied  himself  with  all  the 
artistic  problems  she  unconsciously  spread  be- 
fore him ;  while  she  merely  talked,  garnered  in 
his  questions  and  comments  on  all  she  said,  and 
found  delight  in  the  apparent  interest  and  enter- 
tainment her  conversation  afforded  him. 

"I  seed  a  maggotty-pie*  comin'  along  this 
marnin',"  she  said.  "Wan's  bad  an'  a  sign  o' 
sorrer;  but  if  you  spits  twice  over  your  left 
shoulder  it  doan't  matter  so  much.  But  I  be 
better  off  than  many  maidens,  'cause  I  be  saint- 
protected  like." 

"That's  interesting,  Joan." 

"Faither'd  be  mad  if  I  let  on  'bout  it  to  him, 
so  I  doesn't.  He  doan't  b'lieve  much  in  dead 

*  Maggotty-pie — Magpie. 


78  LYING   PROPHETS 

saints,  though  Carnwall's  full  of  'em.  Have  'e 
heard  tell  'bout  Saint  Madern?" 

"Ah,  the  saint  of  the  well?" 

"Iss,  an'  the  brook  as  runs  by  the  Madern 
chapel." 

"I  sketched  the  little  ruin  of  the  baptistery 
some  time  ago." 

"  'Twas  tho't  a  deal  of  wance,  an'  the  holy 
water  theer  was  reckoned  better  for  childern 
than  any  doctor's  traade  as  ever  was.  My 
mother  weer  a  Madern  cheel;  an'  'er  ordained 
I  should  be  as  well,  an'  when  faither  was  to  sea, 
as  fell  out  just  'pon  the  right  day,  mother  took 
me  up  theer.  That  was  my  awn  mother  as  is 
dead.  More  folks  b'lieved  in  the  spring  then 
than  what  do  now,  'cause  that  was  sebenteen 
year  agone.  An'  from  bein'  a  puny  cheel  I 
grawed  a  bonny  wan  arter  dipping.  But  some 
liked  the  crick-stone  better  for  lil  baabies  than 
even  the  Madern  brook." 

"Men-an-tol  that  stone  is  called?" 

"So  'tis,  awnly  us  knaws  it  as  the  crick-stone. 
Theer's  a  big  hole  in  en,  an'  if  a  cheel  was  passed 
through  nine  times  runnin',  gwaine  'gainst  the 
way  of  the  sun  every  time,  it  made  en  as  strong 
as  a  lion.  An'  'tis  good  for  grawn  people  tu, 
awnly  folks  is  afeared  to  try  now  'cause  t'othere 
laugh  at  en.  But  I  reckon  the  Madern  brook's 
holy  water  still.  An'  theer's  wonnerful  things 
naid  'bout  the  crick-stones  an'  long  stones  tu. 
A  many  of  'em  stands  round  'bout  these 
paarto." 

"D'you  know  Men  Scryfa— the  stone  with  the 


LYING   PROPHETS  79 

writing  on  it?  That's  a  famous  long  stone,  up 
beyond  Lanyon  Farmhouse." 

"I've  seed  en,  'pon  the  heath.  'Tis  butivul 
an'  solemn  an'  still,  all  aloan  out  theer  in  a  croft 
to  itself.  I  trapsed  up-long  wan  day  an'  got  be- 
side of  en  an'  ate  a  pasty  wi'  Joe.  But  Joe  chid 
me,  an'  said  'tweer  a  heathenish  thing  sticked 
theer  by  the  Phoenicians,  as  corned  for  tin  in 
Solomon's  times." 

"Don't  you  believe  that,  Joan.  Men  Scryfa 
marks  the  memory  of  a  good  Briton — one  who 
knew  King  Arthur,  very  likely.  I  love  the  old 
stones  too.  You  are  right  to  love  them.  They 
are  landmarks  in  time,  books  from  which  we 
may  read  something  of  a  far,  fascinating  past." 

"Iss,  but  I  ded'n  tell  'e  all  'bout  the  Madern 
waters.  The  best  day  for  'em  be  the  fust  Sun- 
day in  May;  an'  come  that,  the  mothers  did  use 
to  gaw  up  to  the  chapel — dozens  of  'em — wi' 
poor  lil  baabies.  They  dipped  'em  naked  in  the 
brook,  an'  'twas  just  a  miracle  for  rashes  and 
braggety  legs  and  sich  like.  An',  arterward, 
the  mothers  made  offerin's  to  the  saint.  'Twas 
awnly  the  thot  like,  but  folks  reckoned  the  saint 
'ud  take  the  will  for  the  act,  'cause  poor  people 
couldn'  give  a  saint  nothin'  worth  namin'." 

Barron  had  heard  of  the  votive  offerings  left 
by  the  faithful  in  past  days  at  St.  Madron's 
shrine,  but  felt  somewhat  surprised  to  find  the 
practice  dated  back  to  a  time  so  recent  as  Joan's 
infancy.  He  let  her  talk  on,  for  the  subject  was 
evidently  dear  to  the  girl. 

"And  what  did  the  mothers  give  the  saint?" 


80  LYING    PROPHETS 

"Why,  rags  mostly.  Just  a  rag  tored  off  a 
petticoat,  or  some  sich  thing.  They  hanged  'em 
up  around  about  on  the  thorn  bushes  to  shaw  as 
they'd  a  done  more  for  the  good  saint  if  they'd 
had  the  power.  An'  theer's  another  marvelous 
thing  as  washin'  in  thicky  waters  done :  it  kep' 
the  fairies  off — the  bad  fairies,  I  mean.  'Cause 
theer'm  gude  an'  bad  piskeys,  same  as  gude  an' 
bad  men  folks." 

"You  believe  in  fairies,  Joan?" 

She  looked  at  him  shyly,  but  he  had  appar- 
ently asked  for  information  and  was  not  in  the 
least  amused. 

"I  dunnaw.  P'raps.  Iss,  I  do,  then !  Many 
wiser'n  me  do  b'lieve  in  'em.  You  arsk  the  tin- 
ners— them  as  works  deep.  They  knaws;  they've 
'eard  the  knackers  an'  gathorns  many  a  time,  an' 
some's  seen  'em.  But  the  mine  fairies  be  mostly 
wicked  lil  humpetty-backed  twoads  as'll  do  harm 
if  they  can;  an'  the  buccas  is  onkind  to  fisher- 
men most  times;  an'  'tis  said  they  used  to  bide 
in  the  shape  of  a  cat  by  day.  But  theer  be  land 
fairies  as  is  mighty  good-hearted  if  a  body  be- 
haves seemly." 

"I  believe  in  the  fairies  too,"  said  Barron 
gravely,  "but  I've  never  seen  one." 

"Do  'e  now,  Mister  Jan!  Then  I'm  sure 
theer  is  sich  things.  I  ne'er  seed  wan  neither; 
but  I'd  love  to.  Some  maids  has  vanished 
away  an'  dwelt  'mong  'ern  for  many  days  an* 
then  coined  home.  Theer's  Robin  o'  the  Cam 
as  hail  a  maiden  to  work  for  en.  You  may  have 
heard  the  tale?" 


LYING   PROPHETS  81 

"No,  never." 

"  'Tis  a  fine  tale;  an'  the  gal  had  a  braave 
time  'mongst  the  lil  people  till  she  disobeyed 
'em  an'  found  herself  back  'mongst  men  folk 
agin.  But  in  coorse  some  of  them — the  piskeys, 
I  mean — works  for  men  folk  themselves.  My 
gran'mother  Chirgwin,  when  she  was  very  auld, 
seed  'em  a  threshin'  corn  in  a  barn  up  Drift. 
They  was  tiny  fellers  wi'  beards  an'  red  faaces, 
an'  they  handled  the  flails  cruel  clever.  Then, 
arter  a  bit,  they  done  the  threshin'  an'  was  kick- 
in'  the  short  straw  out  the  grain,  which  riz  a 
gert  dust;  an'  the  piskeys  all  beginned  sneezin'. 
An'  my  gran'mothe^  as  was  peepin'  through 
the  door  unbeknown  to  'em,  forgot  you  must 
never  speak  to  a  piskey,  an'  sez,  'God  bless  'e, 
lil  men!'  'cause  that's  what  us  allus  sez  if  a 
body  sneezes.  Then  they  all  took  fright  an* 
vanished  away  in  the  twinkle  of  a  eye.  "Which 
must  be  true,  'cause  my  awn  gran'mother  tawld 
it.  But  they  ded'n  leave  the  farm,  though  no- 
body seed  'em  again,  for  arter  that  'tis  said  as 
the  cows  gived  a  wonnerful  shower  o'  milk,  bet- 
ter'n  ever  was  knawn  before.  An'  I  'sure  'e  I'd 
dearly  like  to  be  maiden  to  good  piskeys  if  they'd 
let  me  work  for  'em." 

"Ah,  I'm  certain  you  would  suit  them  well, 
Joan;  and  they  would  be  lucky  to  get  you,  I 
think ;  but  I  hope  they  won't  go  and  carry  you 
off  until  I've  done  with  you,  at  any  rate." 

Sh.3  laughed,  and  he  bid  her  put  down  her 
hand  from  her  eyes  and  rest.  He  had  brought 
some  oranges  for  her,  but  judged  the  friendship 


82  LYING    PROPHETS 

had  gone  far  enough,  and  first  decided  not  to 
produce  them.  Half  an  hour  later,  however, 
when  the  sitting  was  ended,  he  changed  his 
mind. 

"Can  you  come  to-morrow,  Joan?  I  am  en- 
tirely in  your  hands,  remember,  and  must  con- 
sider your  convenience  always.  In  fact,  I  am 
your  servant  and  shall  wait  your  pleasure  at  all 
times. 

Joan  felt  proud  and  rather  important. 

"I'll  come  at  'leben  o'clock  to-morrow,  but  I 
doubt  I  caan't  be  here  next  day,  Mister  Jan." 

' '  Thank  you  very  much.  To-morrow  at  eleven 
will  do  splendidly.  By  the  way,  I  have  an  orange 
here — two,  in  fact.  I  thought  we  might  be 
thirsty.  Will  you  take  one  to  eat  going  home?" 

He  held  out  the  fruit  and  she  took  it. 

"My!     What  a  butivul  orange!" 

"Good-by  until  to-morrow,  Joan;  and  thank 
you  for  your  great  kindness  to  a  very  friendless 
man.  You'll  never  be  sorry  for  it,  I'm  sure." 

He  bowed  gravely  and  took  off  his  cap,  then 
turned  to  his  easel;  and  she  blushed  with  a 
lively  pleasure.  She  had  seen  gentlemen  take 
off  their  hats  to  ladies,  but  no  man  had  ever 
paid  her  that  respect  until  then,  and  it  seemed 
good  to  her.  She  marched  off  with  her  picture 
and  her  orange,  but  did  not  eat  the  fruit  until 
out  of  sight  of  Goree  Point. 

The  man  painting  there  already  began  to  fill 
a  space  in  Joan's  thoughts.  He  knew  so  much 
and  yet  was  glad  to  learn  from  her.  He  never 
laughed  or  talked  lightly.  He  put  her  in  miud 


LYING   PROPHETS  83 

of  her  father  for  that  reason,  but  then  his  heart 
was  soft,  and  he  loved  Nature  and  beautiful 
things,  and  believed  in  fairies  and  spoke  no  ill 
of  anybody.  Joan  speculated  as  to  how  these 
meetings  could  be  kept  a  secret  and  came  to  the 
conclusion  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  hide  them. 
Then,  reaching  home,  she  hid  her  picture  be- 
hind the  pig-sty  until  opportunity  offered  for 
taking  it  indoors  to  her  own  bedroom  unob- 
served. 

As  for  John  Barron,  he  felt  kindly  enough 
toward  his  model.  He  could  hold  himself  with 
an  iron  hand  when  he  pleased,  and  proposed  that 
the  growing  friendship  should  ripen  into  a  fine 
work  of  art  and  no  more.  But  what  might  go 
to  the  making  of  the  picture  could  not  be  fore- 
told. He  would  certainly  allow  nothing  to  check 
inspiration  or  stand  between  him  and  the  very 
best  he  had  power  to  achieve.  No  sacrifice  could 
be  too  great  for  Art,  and  Barron,  who  was  now 
awake  and  alive  for  an  achievement,  would,  ac- 
cording to  his  rule,  count  nothing  hard,  nothing 
impossible  that  might  add  a  grain  of  value  to 
the  work.  His  own  skill  and  Joan's  beauty 
were  brought  in  contact  and  he  meant  to  do 
everything  a  man  might  do  to  make  the  result 
immortal.  But  the  human  instruments  neces- 
sary to  such  work  counted  for  nothing,  and  their 
personal  prosperity  and  welfare  would  weigh  no 
more  with  him  than  the  future  of  the  brushes 
which  he  might  use,  after  he  had  done  with 
them. 


84  LYING   PROPHETS 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

UNCLE   CHIRGWIN 

JOAN'S  first  announcement  upon  the  following 
morning  was  a  regret  that  the  sitting  must  be 
short. 

"We'm  mighty  busy,  come  wan  thing  an*  an- 
other, ' '  she  said.  "Mother's  gwaine  to  Penzance 
wi'  my  brother  to  buy  his  seafarin*  kit;  and 
Uncle  Chirgwin,  as  keeps  a  farm  up  Drift,  be 
comin'  to  dinner,  which  he  ain't  done  this  long 
time;  an'  laither  may  by  chance  be  home  tu,  so 
like  as  not,  for  the  first  bwoats  be  tackin'  back 
from  the  inlands  a'ready." 

"You  shall  stop  just  as  short  a  time  as  you 
choose,  Joan.  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come 
at  all  under  these  circumstances,"  declared  the 
artist. 

"Us  be  fine  an'  busy  when  uncle  comes  down- 
long,  an'  partickler  this  time,  'cause  theer've 
bin  a  differ'nce  of  'pinion  'bout— 'bout  a  matter 
betwixt  him  and  faither,  but  now  he's  wrote 
through  the  post  to  say  as  he'm  comin',  so  'tis 
nil  right,  I  s'pose,  an'  us'll  have  to  give  en  a 
good  dinner  anyways." 

"Of  course  you  must,"  admitted  Barron, work- 
ing steadily  the  while. 


LYING  PROPHETS  85 

"He'm  a  dear  sawl,  an'  I  likes  en  better'n 
anybody  in  the  world,  I  think,  'cept  faither. 
But  he's  easier  to  please  than  faither,  an'  so 
humble  as  a  beggar-man.  An'  I  wants  to  make 
some  cakes  for  en  against  tea-time,  'cause  when 
he  comes,  he  bides  till  candle-lighting  or  later." 

Presently  the  artist  bid  her  rest  for  a  short 
while,  and  her  thoughts  reverted  to  him  and  the 
picture. 

"I  hope  as  you'm  feelin'  strong  an'  no  worser, 
Mister  Jan,"  she  said  timidly. 

He  was  puzzled  for  a  moment,  then  recollected 
that  he  had  mentioned  his  health  to  her. 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  asking,  Joan.  It 
was  good  and  thoughtful.  I  am  no  worse — 
rather  better  if  anything,  now  I  come  to  think 
about  it.  Your  Cornish  air  is  kind  to  me,  and 
when  the  sun  shines  I  am  happy." 

"How  be  the  picksher  farin'?" 

"I  get  on  well,  I  think." 

"  'Tis  cruel  clever  of  'e,  Mister  Jan.  An' 
you'll  paint  me  wi'  the  fuzz  all  around?" 

"That  is  what  I  hope  to  do;  a  harmony  in 
brown  and  gold." 

"You'll  get  my  likeness  tu,  I  s'pose,  same  as 
the  photograph  man  done  it  last  winter  to  Pen- 
zance?  Me  an'  Joe  was  took  side  by  side,  an' 
folks  reckoned  'twas  the  moral  of  us,  specially 
when  the  gen'leman  painted  Joe's  hair  black  an' 
mine  yeller  for  another  shillin'  cost." 

"It  must  have  been  very  excellent." 

"Iss,  'twas  for  sartain." 

"What  did  Mr,  Tregenza  say  of  it?" 


86  LYING    PROPHETS 

"Well,  faither,  he'm  contrary  to  sich  things, 
as  I  tawld  'e,  Mister  Jan.  Faither  said  Joe'd 
better  by  a  deal  keep  his  money  in  his  puree; 
but  he  let  me  have  the  picksher,  an'  'tis  nailed 
up  in  a  HI  frame,  what  Joe  made,  at  home  in 
the  parlor." 

She  stopped  a  moment  and  sighed,  then  spoke 
again. 

"Faither's  a  wonnerful  Qod-fearin'  man,  sure 
'nough." 

"Is  he  a  God-loving  man  too,  Joan?" 

"I  dunnaw.  That  ed'n  'sackly  the  same,  I 
s'pose?" 

"As  different  as  fear  and  love.  I'm  not  an 
atom  frightened  of  God  myself — no  more  than  I 
am  of  you." 

"Lard!  Mister  Jan." 

"Why  should  I  be?  You  are  not  frightened 
of  the  air  you  breathe — yet  that  is  part  of  God ; 
you  are  not  frightened  of  the  gold  gorse  or  the 
blue  sky — yet  they  are  part  of  God  too.  God 
made  you — you  are  part  of  God — a  deliberate 
manifestation  of  Him.  What's  the  use  of  being 
frightened?  You  and  I  can  only  know  God  by 
the  shapes  He  takes— by  the  bluebells  and  the 
ferns  and  the  larks  in  the  sky,  and  the  rabbits 
and  wild  things." 

His  effort  to  inspire  the  girl  with  Nature-wor- 
ship, though  crudely  cast  in  a  fashion  most  likel}' 
to  attract  her,  yet  failed  just  then,  and  failed 
ludicrously.  Her  mind  comprehended  barely 
enough  to  accept  his  idea  in  a  sense  suggested 
by  her  acquaintance  with  fable,  and  when  he 


LYING   PROPHETS  87 

instanced  a  rabbit  as  an  earthly  manifestation 
of  the  Everlasting,  she  felt  she  could  cap  the 
example  from  her  own  store  of  knowledge. 

"I  reckon  I  sees  what  you'm  meanin',  Mister 
Jan.  Theer's  things  us  calls  witch-hares  in 
these  paarts  up-long.  The  higher-quarter  peo- 
ple have  seed  'em  'fore  now;  nothin'  but  siller 
bullets  will  kill  'em.  They  goes  loppettin'  about 
down  lawnly  lanes  on  moonlight  nights,  an'  they 
draws  folks  arter  'em.  But  if  you  could  kill 
wan  of  'em  'tis  said  as  they'd  turn  into  witches 
theer  an'  then.  So  you  means  that  God  A'- 
mighty  takes  shaapes  sometimes  same  as  they 
witches  do,  doan't  'e?" 

"Not  quite  that,  Joan.  "What  I  want  you  to 
know  is  that  the  great  Being  you  call  God  is 
nearer  to  you  here,  on  Gorse  Point,  than  in  the 
Luke  Gospelers'  meeting-house,  and  He  takes 
greater  delight  in  a  bird's  song  than  in  all  your 
father's  prayers  and  sermons  put  together.  That 
is  because  the  great  Being  taught  the  bird  to  sing 
Himself,  but  He  never  taught  your  father  to 
pray." 

"I  dunnaw  'sackly  what  you  means,  Mister 
Jan,  but  I  judges  you  ban't  so  religious  like  as 
what  faither  is." 

"Religion  came  from  God  to  man,  Joan,  be- 
cause man  wanted  it  and  couldn't  get  on  com- 
fortably without  it ;  but  theology — if  you  know 
what  that  means — man  invented  for  himself. 
Religion  is  the  light;  theology  is  the  candle- 
stick. Never  quarrel  with  any  man's  candle- 
stick as  long  as  you  can  see  his  light  burning 


88  LYING    PROPHETS 

bravely.  Mr.  Tregenza  thinks  all  men  are  mis- 
taken but  the  Luke  Gospelers — so  you  told  me. 
But  if  that  is  the  case,  what  becomes  of  all  your 
good  Cornish  saints?  They  were  not  Luke  Gos- 
pelers— at  least  I  don't  think  they  were." 

Joan  frowned  over  this  tremendous  problem, 
then  dismissed  it  for  the  pleasanter  and  simpler 
theme  John  Barren's  last  remark  suggested. 

"Them  saints  was  righteous  men  anyhow,  an' 
they  worked  miracles  tu,  so  it  ban't  no  gude 
sayin'  they  wasn't  godly  in  their  ways,  the 
whole  boilin'  of  'em.  Theer's  St.  Piran,  St. 
Michael,  St.  Austell,  St.  Blazey,  St.  Buryan, 
St.  Ives,  St.  Sennen,  St.  Levan,  an'  a  many 
more,  I  could  call  home  if  I  was  to  think.  Did 
'e  ever  hear  tell  'bout  St.  Neot,  Mister  Jan?" 

"No,  Joan;  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  much 
about  him." 

"Not  'bout  they  feesh?" 

"Tell  me,  while  you  rest  a  minute  or  two." 

"  'Tis  a  holy  story,  au'  true  as  any  Bible  tale, 
I  should  guess.  St.  Neot  had  a  well,  an'  wan 
day  he  seed  three  feesh  a  swimmin'  in  it  an'  he 
was  'mazed  to  knaw  how  they  corned  theer.  So 
a  angel  flew  down  an'  tawld  en  that  they  was 
put  theer  for  his  catin',  but  he  must  never  dr;iw 
out  more'n  wan  at  a  time.  Then  he'd  alias  find 
three  when  he  corned  again.  An'  so  he  did; 
but  wance  he  failed  sick  an'  his  servant  had  tc 
look  arter  his  vittles  meantime.  He  was  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Barius,  an'  he  judged  as  maybe 
a  change  of  eatin'  might  do  the  saint  good .  So 
he  goes  an'  takes  two  «'  them  feeah  'stead  o* 


LYING   PROPHETS  89 

wan  as  the  angel  said.  An'  he  b'iled  wan  feesh, 
an'  fried  t'other,  an'  took  'em  to  St.  Neot;  an' 
when  he  seed  what  his  man  been  'bout,  he  was 
flustered,  I  tell  'e.  Then  the  saint  up  and  done 
a  marvelous  straange  thing,  for  he  flinged  them 
feesh  back  in  the  well,  just  as  they  was,  and  be- 
gan praayin'  to  the  Lard  to  forgive  his  man. 
An'  the  feesh  corned  alive  ag'in  and  swimmecl 
around,  though  Barius  had  cleaned  'em,  I 
s'pose,  an'  took  the  guts  out  of  'em  an'  every- 
thing. Then  the  chap  just  catched  wan  feesh 
proper,  an'  St.  Neot  ate  en,  an'  grawed  well  by 
sundown.  So  he  was  a  saint  anyways." 

' '  You  can't  have  a  miracle  without  a  saint,  of 
course,  Joan?" 

"Or  else  the  Lard.  But  I'll  hold  in  mind 
what  you  sez  'bout  Him  bein'  hid  in  flowers  an' 
birds  an'  sich  like,  'cause  that's  a  butivul  thing 
to  knaw." 

"And  in  the  stars  and  the  sun  and  the  moon, 
Joan;  and  in  the  winds  and  clouds.  See  how 
I've  got  on  to-day.  I  don't  think  I  ever  did  so 
much  work  in  an  hour  before." 

She  looked  and  blushed  to  note  her  brown 
frock  and  shoes. 

"You've  done  a  deal  more  to  them  fuzzes  than 
what  you  have  to  me,  seemin'ly,"  she  said. 

"That's  because  the  gorse  is  always  here  and 
you  are  not.  I  work  at  the  gorse  morning  after 
morning,  when  the  sun  is  up,  until  my  fingers 
ache.  You'll  see  great  changes  in  the  picture 
of  yourself  soon  though." 


90  LYING    PROPHETS 

But  she  was  not  satisfied,  of  course  misunder- 
standing the  unfinished  work. 

"You  mustn't  say  anything  yet,  you  know, 
Joan,"  added  the  artist,  seeing  her  pouting  lips. 

"But— but  you've  drawed  me  as  flat  as  a 
cheeld,  an'  I  be  round  as  a  wummon,  ban't  I?" 
she  said,  holding  out  her  hands  that  he  might 
see  her  slight  figure.  Her  blue  eyes  were 
clouded,  for  she  deemed  that  he  had  put  an 
insult  upon  her  budding  womanhood.  Barron 
showed  no  sign  of  his  enjoyment,  but  explained 
as  clearly  as  possible  that  she  was  looking  at  a 
thing  wholly  unfinished,  indeed  scarce  begun. 

"You  might  as  well  grumble  with  me  for  not 
painting  your  fingers  or  your  face,  Joan.  I  told 
you  I  was  a  slow  artist;  only  be  patient;  I'm 
going  to  do  all  fitting  honor  to  every  scrap  of 
you,  if  only  you  will  let  me." 

Warmer  words  had  come  to  his  lips,  but  he 
did  not  suffer  them  to  pass.  Then  the  girl's 
beautiful  face  broke  into  a  smile  again. 

"I  be  nigher  eighteen  than  sebenteen,  you 
knaw,  Mister  Jan.  But,  coorse,  I  hadn't  no 
bizness  to  talk  like  that  to  'e,  'cause  what  do  I 
knaw  'bout  sich  things?" 

"You  shan't  see  the  picture  again  till  it  is  fin- 
ished, Joan.  It  was  my  fault  for  showing  it  to 
you  like  that,  and  you  had  every  right  to  pro- 
test. Now  you  must  go,  for  it's  long  past  twelve 
o'clock." 

"I'm  afeared  I  caan't  come  to-morrer." 

"As  you  please.  I  shall  be  here  every  day, 
ready  and  only  too  glad  to  see  you." 


LYING   PROPHETS  91 

"An' — an'  you  ban't  cross  wi'  me  for  speak- 
in'  so  rude,  Mister  Jan?" 

"Cross,  .loan?  No,  I'm  never  cross  with  any- 
body but  myself.  I  couldn't  be  cross  with  my 
kind  little  friend  if  I  tried  to  be." 

He  shook  hands ;  it  was  the  first  occasion  that 
he  had  done  so,  and  she  blushed.  His  hand  was 
cold  and  thin,  and  she  heard  one  of  the  bones  in 
it  give  a  little  crack  as  he  held  her  palm  within 
his  own  for  the  briefest  space  of  time.  Then, 
as  usual,  the  moment  after  he  had  said  "good- 
by,"  he  appeared  to  become  absolutely  uncon- 
scious of  her  presence,  and  returned  to  his 
picture. 

Joan's  mind  dwelt  much  upon  the  artist  after 
she  had  departed,  and  every  train  of  reflection 
came  back  to  the  last  words  Barren  spoke  that 
morning.  He  had  called  her  his  kind  little 
friend.  It  was  very  wonderful,  Joan  thought, 
and  a  statement  not  to  be  explained  at  all.  Her 
stepmother's  voice  cut  these  pleasant  memories 
sharply,  and  she  returned  home  to  find  that 
Uncle  Chirgwin  had  already  arrived — a  fact 
his  old  gray  horse,  tethered  in  the  orchard, 
and  his  two-wheeled  market  cart,  drawn  up  in 
the  side-lane,  testified  to  before  Mrs.  Tregenza 
announced  it. 

"Out  again,  of  coorse,  just  because  you 
knawed  I  was  to  be  drove  off  my  blessed  legs 
to-day.  I'll  tell  your  faither  of  'e,  so  I  will. 
Gals  like  you  did  ought  to  be  chained  'longside 
theer  work  till  'tis  done." 

Uncle   Chirgwin   sat  by  the  fireside  with  a 


92  LYING    PROPHETS 

placid  if  bored  expression  on  his  round  face. 
His  hands  were  folded  on  his  stomach ;  his  short 
legs  were  stuck  out  before  him ;  his  head  was 
quite  bald,  his  color  high,  his  gray  eyes  weak, 
though  they  had  some  laughter  hidden  in  them . 
His  double  chin  was  shaved,  but  a  very  white 
bristle  of  stubbly  whisker  surrounded  it  and 
ascended  to  where  all  that  remained  of  his  hair 
stuck,  like  two  patches  of  cotton  wool,  above  his 
ears.  The  old  man  wore  a  suit  of  gray  tweed 
and  blinked  benignly  through  a  pair  of  spec 
tacles.  He  had  already  heard  enough  of  Mrs. 
Tregenza's  troubles  to  last  some  time,  and  turned 
with  pleasure  to  Joan  as  she  entered.  So  hearty 
indeed  was  the  greeting  and  a  kiss  which  ac- 
companied it  that  his  niece  felt  the  displeasure 
which  her  uncle  had  recorded  by  post  upon  the 
occasion  of  her  engagement  to  Mary  Chirgwin's 
former  sweetheart  existed  no  more. 

"My  ivers!  a  braave,  bowerly  maid  you'm 
grawin',  sure  'nough!  Joan'll  be  a  wummon 
'fore  us  can  look  round,  mother." 

"Iss — an*  a  fine  an'  lazy  wummon  tu.  I  wish 
you  could  make  her  work  like  what  Mary  does 
up  Drift." 

""Well,  I  dunnaw.  You  see  there's  all  sorts 
of  girls,  same  as  plants  an'  'osses  an'  cetera. 
Some's  for  work,  some's  for  shaw.  You  'specks 
a  flower  to  be  purty,  but  you  doan't  blame  a 
'tater  plant  'cause  'e  ed'n  particular  butivul. 
Same  wi'  'osses,  an*  wi'  gals.  Joan's  like  that 
chinee  plate  'pon  the  bracket,  wi'  the  pickshers 
o*  Saltash  Burdge  'pon  en,  an1  gold  writin'  un- 


LYING   PROPHETS  93 

der;  an'  Mary's  like  that  pie-dish,  what  you  put 
in  the  ubben  a  while  back.  Wan's  for  shaw, 
t'other's  for  use — eh?" 

"Gwan!  you'm  jokin',  Uncle  Thomas!"  said 
Joan. 

"An'  a  poor  joke  tu,  so  'tis.  You'd  turn  any 
gal's  'ead  wi'  your  stuff,  Chirgwin.  Wheer's 
the  gude  of  a  fuzz-pole  o'  yeller  hair  an'  a  pair 
o'  blue  eyes  stuck  'pon  top  of  a  idle,  good-for- 
nothin'  body?  Maidens  caan't  live  by  looks  in 
these  paarts,  an'  they'll  find  theerselves  in 
trouble  mighty  quick  if  they  tries  to." 

Uncle  Chirgwin  instantly  admitted  that  Mrs. 
Tregenza  had  the  better  of  the  argument.  He 
was  a  simple  man  with  a  soft  heart  and  no 
brains  worth  naming.  Most  people  laughed  at 
him  and  loved  him.  As  sure  as  he  went  to  Pen- 
zance  on  market-day,  he  was  cordially  greeted 
and  made  much  of,  and  robbed.  People  sus- 
pected that  his  shrewd,  black-eyed  niece  stood 
between  him  and  absolute  misfortune.  She 
never  let  him  go  to  market  without  her  if  she 
could  help  it ;  for,  on  those  infrequent  occasions 
when  he  jogged  to  town  with  his  gray  horse  and 
cart  alone,  he  always  went  with  a  great  trust  of 
the  world  in  his  heart  and  endeavored  to  con- 
duct the  sale  of  farm  produce  in  the  spirit  of 
Christianity,  which  was  magnificent  but  not 
business.  Mr.  Chirgwin's  simple  theories  had 
kept  him  a  poor  man ;  yet  the  discovery,  often 
repeated,  that  his  knowledge  of  human  nature 
was  bad,  never  imbittered  him,  and  he  mildly 
persisted  in  his  pernicious  system  of  trusting 


94  LYING    PROPHETS 

everybody  until  he  found  he  could  not;  unlike 
his  neighbors  who  trusted  nobody  until  they 
found  that  they  could.  The  farmer  had  blazed 
with  indignation  when  Joe  Noy  flung  over  Mary 
Chirgwin  because  she  would  not  become  a  Luke 
Gospeler.  But  the  matter  was  now  blown  over, 
for  the  jilted  girl,  though  the  secret  bitterness 
of  her  sorrow  still  bred  much  gall  in  her  bosom, 
never  paraded  it  or  showed  a  shadow  of  it  in  her 
dark  face.  Uncle  Thomas  greatly  admired  Mary 
and  even  feared  her;  but  he  loved  Joan,  for  she 
was  like  her  dead  mother  outwardly  and  like 
himself  in  character:  a  right  Chirgwin,  loving 
sunshine  and  happiness,  herself  sunshiny  and 
happy. 

"  'Pears  I've  corned  the  wrong  day,  Joan," 
he  said  presently,  when  Mrs.  Tregenza's  back 
was  turned,  "but  now  I  be  here,  you  must  do 
with  me  as  you  can." 

"Mother's  gwaine  to  town  wi'  Tom  bimebye; 
then  me  an'  you'll  have  a  talk,  uncle,  wi'out 
nothin'  to  let  us.  You'm  lookin'  braave,  me 
auld  dear." 

He  liked  a  compliment,  and  anticipated  pleas- 
ure from  a  quiet  afternoon  with  his  niece.  She 
bustled  about,  as  usual,  to  make  up  for  lost  time ; 
and  presently,  when  the  cloth  was  laid,  walked 
to  the  cottage  door  to  see  if  her  father's  lugger 
was  at  its  moorings  or  in  sight.  Meantime  Mrs. 
Tregenza,  having  brought  forth  dinner  from  the 
oven,  called  at  the  back  door  to  her  son  in  a 
voice  harsh  and  shrill  beyond  customary  meas- 
ure, as  became  her  exceptional  tribulations. 


LYING   PEOPHBTS  95 

"Come  in,  will  'e,  an'  ait  your  food,  bwoy. 
Theer  ed'n  no  call  to  kick  out  they  boots  agin' 
the  pig's  'ouse  because  I  be  gwaine  to  buy  new 
wans  for  'e  presently." 

Fired  by  a  word  which  she  had  heard  from 
John  Barren,  that  flowers  became  the  house  as 
well  as  the  garden,  Joan  plucked  an  early  sprig 
of  pink  ribe  and  the  first  buds  of  wall-flower  be- 
fore returning  to  the  kitchen.  These  she  put  in 
a  jug  of  water  and  planted  boldly  upon  the  din- 
ner-table as  Mrs.  Tregenza  brought  out  a  pie. 

"Butivul,  sure  'nough, "  said  Mr.  Chirgwin, 
drawing  in  his  chair.  His  eye  was  on  the  pie- 
dish,  but  Joan  thought  he  referred  to  her 
bouquet. 

"Lard!  what'll  'e  do  next?  Take  they  things 
off  the  table  to  wance,  Joan." 

"But  Uncle  Thomas  sez  they'm  butivul,"  she 
pleaded. 

"They  be  pleasant,"  admitted  Mr.  Chirgwin, 
"but  bloody-warriors*  be  out  o'  plaace  'pon  the 
dinner-table.  I  was  'ludin'  to  this  here.  You 
do  brown  a  'tater  to  rights,  mother." 

Mrs.  Tregenza's  shepherd's  pies  had  a  reputa- 
tion, and  anybody  eating  of  one  without  favor- 
able comment  was  judged  to  have  made  a  hole 
in  his  manners.  Now  she  helped  the  steaming 
delicacy  and  sighed  as  she  sat  down  before  her 
own  ample  share. 

"Lard  knaws  how  I  done  it  to-day.  'Tis  just  a 
enstauce  how  some  things  comes  nachrul  to  some 
people.  You  wants  a  light  hand  wi'  herbs  an' 
*  Bloody-warrior — Wall-flower. 


96  LYING    PROPHETS 

to  knaw  your  ubben.  Get  the  brandy,  Joan. 
Uncle  allus  likes  the  edge  off  drinkin'  water." 

The  Tregenzas  were  teetotalers,  but  a  bottle 
of  brandy  for  medicinal  purposes  occupied  the 
corner  of  a  certain  cupboard. 

"You  puts  it  right,  mother.  'Tis  just  the 
sharpness  I  takes  off.  1  can't  drink  no  beer 
nowadays,  though  fond  o'  it,  'cause  'tis  belly- 
vengeance  stuff  arter  you  gets  past  a  certain 
time  o*  life.  But  I'd  as  soon  have  tea." 

"That's  bad  to  drink  'long  wi'  vlaish,"  said 
Mrs.  Tregenza.  "Tea  turns  mayte  leather-hard 
an'  plagues  the  stomach  cruel,  as  I  knaws  to  my 
cost." 

They  ate  in  silence  a  while,  then,  having  ex- 
pressed and  twice  repeated  a  wish  that  Mary 
could  be  taught  to  make  shepherd's  pies  after 
the  rare  fashion  of  his  hostess,  Mr.  Chirgwin 
turned  to  Tom. 

"So  you'm  off  for  a  sailor  bwoy,  my  lad?" 

"Iss,  uncle,  an'  mother  gwaine  to  spend  fi' 
puns  o'  money  on  my  kit." 

"By  Golles!  be  she  now?  I  lay  you'll  be 
smart  an'  vitty!" 

"That  he  will!"  said  Joan,  but  Mrs.  Tregenza 
shook  her  head. 

"I  did  sadly  want  en  to  be  a  landsman  an' 
'prenticed  to  some  good  body  in  bizness.  It's 
i  unnin'  'gainst  dreams  as  I  had  'fore  the  bwoy 
was  born,  an'  the  voice  I  heard  speakin'  by 
night  arter  I  were  churched  by  the  Luke  Gos- 
p'lers.  But  you  knaw  Michael.  What's  dreams 
to  him,  nor  yet  voices?" 


LYING   PROPHETS  97 

"The  worst  paart  'bout  'em,  if  I  may  say  it, 
is  that  they'm  so  uncommon  well  acquainted  like 
wi'  theer  awn  virtues.  I  mean  the  Gosp'lers 
an'  all  chapel-members  likewise.  It  blunts  my 
pleasure  in  a  good  man  to  find  he  knaws  how 
good  he  is.  Same  as  wan  doan't  like  to  see  a 
purty  gal  tossin'  her  head  tu  high." 

"You  caan't  say  no  sich  thing  o'  Michael,  I'm 
sure,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Tregenza  instantly; 
"he'm  that  modest  wi'  his  righteousness  as  can 
be.  I've  knawn  en  say  open  in  prayer,  'fore  the 
whole  chapel,  as  he's  no  better'n  a  crawlin' 
worm.  An'  if  he's  a  worm,  what's  common 
folks  like  you  an'  me?  Awnly  Michael  doan't 
seem  to  take  'count  in  voices  an'  dreams,  but  I 
knaws  they'm  sent  a  purpose  an'  not  for  nort." 

Mr.  Chirgwin  admitted  his  own  ridiculous  re- 
ligious insignificance  as  contrasted  with  Gray 
Michael.  Indeed  the  comparison,  so  little  in  his 
favor,  amused  him  extremely.  He  sipped  his 
brandy  and  water  and  enjoyed  a  treacle-pud- 
ding which  followed  the  pie.  Then,  when  Joan 
was  clearing  up  and  Mrs.  Tregenza  had  departed 
to  prepare  for  her  visit  to  Penzance,  Uncle 
Thomas  began  to  puff  out  his  cheeks,  and  blow, 
and  frown,  and  look  uneasily  to  the  right  and 
left — actions  invariably  performed  when  he  con- 
templated certain  monetary  achievements  of 
which  he  was  only  too  fond.  The  sight  of 
Mary's  eyes  upon  him  had  often  killed  such  indis- 
cretions in  the  bud,  but  she  was  not  present  just 
then,  so,  with  further  furtive  glances,  he  brought 
out  his  purse,  opened  it,  and  found  a  half -so  v- 


98  LYING    PROPHETS 

ereign  which  reposed  alone  in  the  splendor  of 
a  separate  compartment.  Uncle  Chirgwin  then 
beckoned  to  Tom,  who  had  gone  into  the  garden 
till  his  mother  should  be  ready  to  start. 

"Good  speed  to  'e,  bwoy,"  he  said,  "an'  may 
the  Lard  watch  over  'e  by  land  an'  sea.  Take 
you  this  lil  piece  o'  money  to  buy  what  you've 
a  mind  to;  an'  knaw  you've  got  a  auld  man's 
blessin'  'long  wi'  it." 

"Mother,"  said  Tom,  a  minute  later,  "uncle 
have  gived  me  a  bit  o'  gawld!" 

She  took  the  coin  from  him  and  her  eyes 
rested  on  it  lovingly  while  the  outlines  of  her 
face  grew  softer  and  she  moistened  her  lips. 

"First  gawld's  ever  I  had,"  commented  Tom. 

"You'm  'mazdn'  generous  wi'  your  moneys, 
uncle,  an*  I  thank  'e  hearty  for  the  bwoy. 
Mighty  good  of  'e — so  much  money  to  wance," 
said  Thomasin,  showing  more  gratification  than 
she  knew. 

"I  wants  en  to  be  thrifty,"  answered  the  old 
man,  very  wisely.  "You  knaws  how  hard  it  is 
to  teach  young  people  the  worth  o'  money." 

"Ay,  an'  some  auld  wans!  Blest  if  I  doan't 
think  you'd  give  your  head  away  if  'e  could. 
But  I'll  take  this  here  half-suvrin'  for  Tom. 
'Tis  a  nest-egg  as  he  shall  add  to  as  he  may." 

Tom  did  not  foresee  this  arrangement,  and 
had  something  to  say  as  he  tramped  off  with  his 
mother  to  town ;  but  though  he  could  do  more 
with  her  and  get  more  out  of  her  than  anybody 
else  in  the  world,  money  was  a  subject  concern- 
ing which  Mrs.  Tregeuzu  always  had  her  way. 


LYING   PROPHETS  99 

She  understood  it  and  loved  it  and  allowed  no  in- 
terference from  anybody,  Michael  alone  excepted. 
But  he  cared  not  much  for  money  and  was  well 
content  to  let  his  wife  hold  the  purse ;  yet  when 
he  did  occasionally  demand  an  account,  it  was 
always  forthcoming  to  the  uttermost  farthing, 
and  he  fully  believed  what  other  people  told 
him  that  Thomasin  could  make  a  sixpenny-piece 
go  further  than  any  other  woman  in  Newlyn. 

Mother  and  son  presently  departed;  while  Mr. 
Chirgwin  took  off  his  coat,  lighted  his  pipe,  and 
walked  with  Joan  round  about  the  orchard.  He 
foretold  great  things  for  the  plums,  now  in  full 
flower;  he  poked  the  pigs  with  his  stick  and 
spoke  encouragingly  of  their  future  also.  Then 
he  discussed  Joan's  prospects  and  gladdened  her 
heart  by  telling  her  the  past  must  be  let  alone 
and  need  never  be  reverted  to  again. 

"Mary's  gettin'  over  it  tu,"  he  said,  "least- 
ways I  think  she  is.  Her  knaws  wheer  to  look 
for  comfort,  bless  her.  Us  must  all  keep  friendly 
for  life's  not  long  enough  to  do  'nough  good  in, 
I  allus  says,  let  alone  the  doin'  o'  bad." 

Then  he  discussed  Joe  Noy,  and  Joan  was 
startled  to  find,  when  she  came  to  think  seri- 
ously upon  the  subject,  that  though  but  a  week 
and  three  days  had  passed  since  she  bid  her  lover 
"good-by,"  yet  the  picture  of  him  in  her  mind 
already  grew  a  trifle  dim,  and  the  prospect  of 
his  absence  for  a  year  held  not  the  least  sorrow 
in  it  for  her. 

Presently,  after  looking  to  his  horse,  Uncle 
Thomas  hinted  at  forty  winks,  if  the  same  would 


100  LYING   PROPHETS 

be  quite  convenient,  and  Joan,  settling  him  with 
some  approach  to  comfort  upon  ti  little  horse- 
hair sofa  in  the  parlor,  turned  her  attention  to 
the  making  of  saffron  cakes  for  tea. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

THE    MAKING    OF    PROGRESS 

JOHN  BARRON  held  strong  theories  about  the 
importance  of  the  mental  condition  when  work 
was  in  hand.  Once  fairly  engaged  upon  a  pict- 
ure, he  painted  veiy  fast,  labored  without  cessa- 
tion, and  separated  himself  as  far  as  might  be 
from  every  outside  influence.  No  new  interests 
were  suffered  to  intrude  upon  his  mind;  no  dis- 
tractions of  any  sort,  intellectual  or  otherwise, 
were  permitted  to  occupy  even  those  leisure  in- 
tervals which  of  necessity  lay  between  the  pe- 
riods of  his  work.  On  the  present  occasion  he 
merely  fed  and  slept  and  dwelt  solitary,  shunning 
society  of  every  sort  and  spending  as  little  time  in 
Newlyn  as  possible.  Fortunately  for  his  achieve- 
ment the  weather  continued  wonderfully  fine  and 
each  successive  day  brought  like  conditions  of 
sunshine  and  color,  light  and  air.  This  circum- 
stance enabled  him  to  proceed  rapidly,  and  an- 
uthrr  f;ict  also  contributed  t<>  progress;  the  tem- 
perature kept  high  and  the  cow-byre,  wherein 
on  stored  his  implements  and  growing  pict- 


LYING  ,PROPHETS  101 

ure,  proved  so  well-built  and  so  snug  withal  that 
on  more  than  one  occasion  he  spent  the  entire 
night  there.  Sweet  brown  bracken  filled  a 
manger,  and  of  this  he  pulled  down  sufficient 
quantities  to  make,  with  railway  rugs,  an  ample 
bed.  The  outdoor  life  appeared  to  suit  his 
health  well;  some  color  had  come  to  his  pale 
cheeks;  he  felt  considerably  stronger  in  body 
and  mentally  invigorated  by  the  strain  of  work 
now  upon  him. 

But  though  he  turned  his  back  on  his  fellow- 
men  they  sought  him  out,  and  rumors  at  length 
grew  to  a  certainty  that  Barren  was  busy  paint- 
ing somewhere  on  the  cliffs  beyond  Mousehole. 
Everybody  supposed  he  had  abandoned  his  am- 
bition to  get  a  portrait  of  Joan  Tregenza;  but 
one  man  was  in  his  confidence :  Edmund  Mur- 
doch. The  young  artist  had  been  useful  to  Bar- 
ron.  On  many  occasions  he  tramped  out  from 
Newlyn  with  additions  to  the  scanty  larder  kept 
at  the  cow-byre.  He  would  bring  hard-boiled 
eggs,  sandwiches,  bottles  of  soda  -  water  and 
whisky ;  and  once  he  arrived  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning  with  a  pony  cart  in  which  was  a 
little  oil  stove.  Barron  had  confided  in  Mur- 
doch, but  begged  he  would  let  it  be  known  that 
he  courted  no  society  for  the  present.  As  the 
work  grew  he  spent  more  and  more  time  upon 
it.  He  explained  to  his  friend  quite  seriously 
that  he  was  painting  the  gorse,  but  that  Joan 
Tregenza  had  consented  to  fill  a  part  of  the  pict- 
ure— a  statement  which  amused  the  younger 
artist  not  a  little. 


102  LYING    PROPHETS 

''But  the  gorse  is  extraordinary,  I'll  admit. 
You  must  have  worked  without  ceasing.  She 
will  be  exquisite.  Where  shall  you  get  the  blue 
for  her  eyes?" 

"Out  of  the  sky  and  the  sea." 

"Does  the  girl  inspire  you  herself,  John?  I 
swear  something  has.  This  is  going  to  be 
great." 

"It's  going  to  be  true,  that's  all.  No,  Joan 
is  a  dear  child,  but  her  body's  no  more  than  a 
perfect  casket  to  a  commonplace  little  soul.  She 
talks  a  great  deal  and  I  like  nothing  better  than 
to  listen;  for  although  what  she  says  is  naught, 
yet  her  manner  of  saying  it  does  not  lack  charm. 
Her  voice  is  wonderfully  sweet — it  comes  from 
her  throat  like  a  wood-pigeon's,  and  education 
has  not  ruined  her  diction." 

"She's  as  shy  as  any  wood-pigeon,  too — we 
all  know  that;  and  you've  done  a  clever  thing 
to  tame  her." 

"God  forbid  that  I  should  tame  her.  We  met 
and  grew  friendly  as  wild  things  both.  She  is 
a  child  of  Nature,  her  mind  is  as  pure  as  the 
sea.  Moreover,  Joan  walks  saint-guided.  Folk- 
lore and  local  twaddle  does  not  appeal  overmuch 
to  me,  as  you  know,  yet  the  stories  drop  prettily 
from  her  lips  and  I  find  pleasure  in  listening." 

Murdoch  whistled. 

t"By  Jove!  I  never  heard  you  so  enthusias- 
tic, so  positive,  so  personally  alive  and  awake 
and  interested.  Don't  fall  in  love  with  the  girl 
before  you  know  it." 

To  this  warning  Barron  made  a  curious  reply. 


LYING   PROPHETS  103 

"Everything  depends  on  my  picture.  You 
know  my  rule  of  life;  to  sacrifice  all  things 
to  mood.  I  shall  do  so  here.  The  best  I  can 
do  must  be  done  whatever  the  cost." 

A  shadow  almost  sinister  lay  behind  the  ut- 
terance, yet  young  Murdoch  could  not  fathom 
it.  Barren  spoke  in  his  usual  slow,  unaffected 
tones,  and  painted  all  the  time ;  for  the  conver- 
sation took  place  on  Gorse  Point. 

"Not  sure  if  I  quite  understand  you,  old  man," 
said  Murdoch. 

"It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least  if  you  don't, 
my  dear  fellow." 

His  words  were  hardly  civil,  but  the  tone  in 
which  Barren  spoke  robbed  the  utterance  of  any 
offense. 

"All  you  need  do,"  he  continued,  "is  to  keep 
silent  in  the  interests  of  art  and  of  Joan.  I 
don't  want  her  precious  visits  to  me  to  get  back 
to  her  father's  ears  or  they  will  cease,  and  I 
don't  wish  to  do  her  a  bad  turn  in  her  home,  for 
I  owe  her  a  great  debt  of  gratitude.  If  men  ask 
what  I'm  doing,  lie  to  them  and  beg  them  not  to 
disturb  me,  for  the  sake  of  Art.  What  a  glint 
the  east  wind  gives  to  color!  Yet  this  is  hardly 
to  be  called  an  east  wind,  so  soft  and  balmy 
does  it  keep." 

"Well,  you  seem  to  be  the  better  for  your 
work,  at  any  rate.  You're  getting  absolutely 
fat.  If  Newlyn  brings  you  health  as  well  as 
fame,  I  hope  you'll  retract  some  of  the  many 
hard  things  you  have  said  about  it." 

"It  has  brought  me  an  interest,  and  for  that 


104  LYING   PROPHETS 

at  any  rate  I  am  grateful.  Good -by.  I  shall 
probably  come  down  to-night,  despite  the  fact 
that  you  have  replenished  my  stores  so  hand- 
somely." 

Murdoch  started  homeward  and  met  Joan 
Tregenza  upon  the  way.  She  had  given  Bar- 
ron  one  further  sitting  after  Uncle  Chirgwin's 
call  at  Newlyn,  but  since  the  last  occasion,  and 
fcr  a  period  of  two  days,  chance  prevented  the 
girl  from  paying  him  another  visit.  Now  she 
arrived,  however,  as  early  as  half -past  ten,  and 
Murdoch,  while  he  passed  her  on  the  hill  from 
Mousehole,  envied  his  friend  the  morning's  work 
before  him. 

Joan  was  very  hot  and  very  apologetic  upon 
her  arrival. 

"I  began  to  fear  you  had  forgotten  me,"  the 
artist  said,  but  she  was  loud  in  protestations  to 
the  contrary. 

"No,  no,  Mister  Jan.  I've  fretted  'bout  not 
comin*  up  like  anything;  ay,  an'  I've  cried  of  a 
night  'cause  I  thot  you'd  be  reckoning  I  wad- 
dun  comin'  no  more.  But  'tweern't  my  doin' 
no  ways." 

"You  hadn't  forgotten  me?" 

"Indeed  an'  I  hadn't.  An'  I'd  be  sorrerful 
if  I  thot  you  thot  so." 

She  walked  to  the  old  position  before  the  gorse 
and  fell  naturally  into  it,  speaking  the  while. 

"  "Pis  this  way:  mother's  been  bad  wi'  faace 
ache  arter  my  brother  Tom  went  to  sea  wi' 
faither.  An'  mother  grizzled  an'  worrited  her- 
self reg'lar  ill  an'  stopped  in  bed  two  days  an* 


LYING   PROPHETS  105 

kep  on  whinin'  'bout  what  I  was  to  do  if  she 
died;  cause  she  s'posed  she  was  gwained  to. 
But  so  soon  as  Tom  corned  off  his  first  trip, 
mother  cheered  wonnerful,  an'  riz  up  to  see  to 
en,  an'  hear  tell  'bout  how  he  fared  on  the 
water." 

"Your  head  a  wee  bit  higher,  Joan.  Well, 
I'm  thankful  to  see  you  again.  I  was  getting 
very,  very  lonely,  I  promise  you.  And  the 
more  I  thought  about  the  picture  the  more  un- 
happy I  became.  There's  such  a  lot  to  do  and 
only  such  a  clumsy  hand  to  do  it.  The  better 
I  know  you,  Joan,  the  harder  become  the  prob- 
lems you  set  me.  How  am  I  going  to  get  your 
soul  looking  out  of  your,  eyes,  d'you  think? 
How  am  I  to  make  those  who  may  see  my 
picture  some  day — years  after  you  and  I  are 
both  dead  and  gone,  Joan — fall  in  love  with 
you?" 

"La!  I  dunnaw,  Mister  Jan." 

"Nor  do  I.  How  shall  I  make  the  picture  so 
true  that  generations  unborn  will  delight  in  the 
portrait  and  deem  it  great  and  fine?" 

"I  dunnaw." 

"And  yet  you  deserve  it,  Joan,  for  I  don't 
think  God  ever  made  anything  prettier." 

She  blushed  and  looked  softly  at  him,  but 
took  no  alarm;  for  though  such  a  compliment 
had  never  before  been  paid  her,  yet,  as  Barron 
spoke  the  words,  slowly,  critically,  without  en- 
thusiasm or  any  expression  of  pleasure  on  his 
face,  they  had  little  power  to  alarm.  He  merely 
stated  what  he  seemed  to  regard  as  a  fact. 


106  LYING    PROPHETS 

There  was  almost  a  suggestion  of  irritation  in 
his  utterance,  as  though  his  model's  rare  beauty 
only  increased  his  own  artistic  difficulties;  and, 
perhaps  fearing  from  her  smile  that  she  found 
undue  pleasure  in  his  statement,  he  added  to  it : 

"I  don't  say  that  to  flatter  you,  Joan.  I  hate 
compliments  and  never  pay  them.  I  told  you, 
remember,  that  your  wrists  were  a  thought  too 
big." 

"You  needn't  be  sayin*  it  over  an'  over,  Mis 
ter  Jan,"  she  answered,  her  smile  changing  to 
a  pout. 

"But  you  wouldn't  like  me  any  more  if  I 
stopped  telling  you  the  truth.  We  have  agreed 
to  love  what  is  true  and  to  worship  Mother  Nat- 
ure because  she  always  speaks  the  truth." 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  and  he  went  on 
working  for  a  few  moments,  then  spoke  again. 

"I'm  selfish,  Joan,  and  think  more  of  my 
picture  than  I  do  of  my  little  model.  Put  down 
your  arm  and  take  a  good  rest.  I  tried  holding 
my  hand  over  my  eyes  yesterday  to  see  how 
long  I  could  do  so  without  wearying  myself.  I 
found  that  three  minutes  was  quite  enough,  but 
I  have  often  kept  you  posed  for  five." 

"It  hurted  my  arm  'tween  the  shoulder  an' 
elbow  a  lil  bit  at  first,  but  I*ve  grawed  used  to 
it  now." 

"How  ever  shall  I  repay  you,  kind  Joan,  for 
all  your  trouble  and  your  long  walks  and  pretty 
stories?" 

"I  doan't  need  no  pay.  If  'twas  a  matter  o* 
payin',  'twould  be  a  wrong  thing  to  do,  I  reckon. 


LYING   PROPHETS  107 

Theer's  auld  Bascombe  up  Paul — him  wi'  curls 
o'  long  hair  an'  gawld  rings  in's  ears.  Gents 
pays  en  to  take  his  likeness;  an'  theer's  gals 
make  money  so,  more'n  wan ;  but  faither  says 
'tis  a  heathenish  way  of  livin'  an'  not  honest. 
An' — an'  I'd  never  let  nobody  paint  me  else  but 
you,  Mister  Jan,  'cause  you'm  different." 

"Well,  you  make  me  a  proud  man,  Joan.  I'm 
afraid  I  must  be  a  poor  substitute  for  Joe." 

He  noticed  she  had  never  mentioned  her  sweet- 
heart since  their  early  interviews,  and  wanted  to 
ascertain  of  what  nature  was  Joan's  affection 
for  the  sailor.  He  did  not  yet  dream  how  faint 
a  thing  poor  Joe  had  shrunk  to  be  in  Joan's 
mind,  or  how  the  present  episode  in  her  life  was 
dwarfing  and  dominating  all  others,  present  and 


Nor  did  the  girl's  answer  to  his  remark  en- 
lighten him. 

"In  coorse  you  an'  Joe's  differ 'nt  as  can  be. 
You  knaws  everything  seemin'ly  an'  be  a  gen'le- 
man;  Joe's  only  a  seafarin'  man,  an'  'e  doan't 
knaw  much  'cept  what  he's  larned  from  faither. 
But  Joe  used  to  say  a  sight  more'n  what  you 
do,  for  all  that." 

"I  like  to  hear  you  talk,  Joan;  perhaps  Joe 
liked  to  hear  himself  talk.  Most  men  do.  But, 
you  see,  the  things  you  have  told  me  are  pleas- 
ant to  me  and  they  were  not  to  Joe,  because  he 
didn't  believe  in  them.  Don't  look  at  me,  Joan; 
look  right  away  to  the  edge  of  the  sea." 

"You'm  surprised  like  as  I  talks  to  ye,  Mister 
Jan.  Doan't  ladies  talk  so  free  as  what  I  do?" 


10S  LYING    PROPHETS 

"Other  women  talk,  but  they  are  very  seldom 
in  earnest  like  you  are,  Joan.  They  don't  be- 
lieve half  they  say,  they  pretend  and  make 
believe;  they've  got  to  do  so,  poor  things,  be- 
cause the  world  they  live  in  is  all  built  up  on 
ancient  foundations  of  great  festering  lies.  The 
lies  are  carefully  coated  over  and  disinfected  as 
much  as  possible  and  quite  hidden  out  of  sight, 
but  everybody  knows  they  are  there— everybody 
knows  the  quaking  foundations  they  tread  upon. 
Civilization  means  universal  civility,  I  suppose, 
Joan;  and  to  be  civil  to  everybody  argues  a 
great  power  of  telling  lies.  People  call  it  tact. 
But  I  don't  like  polite  society  myself,  because 
my  nose  is  sensitive  and  I  smell  the  stinking 
basis  through  all  the  pretty  paint.  You  and  I, 
Joan,  belong  to  Nature.  She  te  not  always 
civil,  but  you  can  trust  her;  she  is  seldom  po- 
lite, but  she  never  says  what  is  not  true." 

"You  talk  as  though  'e  ded'n  much  like  ladies 
an'  gen'lemen,  same  as  you  be." 

"I  don't,  and  I'm  not  what  you  understand 
by  'a  gentleman,'  Joan.  Gentlemen  and  ladies 
let  me  go  among  them  and  mix  with  them,  be- 
cause I  happen  to  have  t\  pfreat  deal  of  money- 
thousands  and  thousands  of  pounds.  That  opens 
the  door  to  their  drawing-rooms,  if  I  wanted  tt> 
open  it,  but  I  don't.  I've  seen  them  and  gone 
ubout  among  them,  and  I'm  sick  of  them.  If  it 
man  wishes  to  know  what  polite  society  is  let 
him  go  into  it  as  a  very  wealthy  bachelor.  I'm 
not  'a gentleman,'  you  know,  Joan,  fortunately." 

"Surely,  Mister  Jan!" 


LYING   PROPHETS  109 

"No  more  than  you're  a  lady.  But  I  can  try 
to  be  gentle  and  manly,  which  is  better.  You 
and  I  come  from  the  same  class,  Joan ;  from  the 
people.  The  only  difference  is  that  my  father 
happened  to  make  a  huge  fortune  in  London. 
Guess  what  he  sold?" 

"Idunnaw." 

"Fish — just  plaice  and  flounders  and  herrings 
and  so  forth.  He  sold  them  by  tens  of  thou- 
sands. Your  father  sells  them  too.  But  what 
d'you  think  was  the  difference?  Why,  your 
father  is  an  honest  man;  mine  wasn't.  The 
fishermen  sold  their  fish,  after  they  had  had  the 
trouble  and  danger  of  catching  them,  to  my 
father;  and  then  my  father  sold  them  again  to 
the  public ;  and  the  fishermen  got  too  little  and 
the  public  paid  too  much,  and  so — I'm  a  very 
rich  man  to-day — the  son  of  a  thief." 

"Mister  Jan!" 

"Nobody  ever  called  him  a  thief  but  me.  He 
was  a  great  star  in  this  same  polite  society  I 
speak  of.  He  fed  hundreds  of  fat  people  on  the 
money  that  ought  to  have  gone  into  the  fisher- 
men's pockets;  and  he  died  after  eating  too 
much  salmon  and  cucumber  at  his  own  table. 
Poetic  justice,  you  know.  There  are  stained 
glass  windows  up  to  his  memory  in  two 
churches  and  tons  of  good  white  marble  were 
wasted  when  they  made  his  grave.  But  he 
was  a  thief,  just  as  surely  as  your  father  is  an 
honest  man ;  so  you  have  the  advantage  of  me, 
Joan.  I  really  doubt  if  I'm  respectable  enough 
for  you  to  know  and  trust." 


110  LYING   PROPHETS 

"I'd  trust  'e  with  anything,  Mister  Jan,  'cause 
you'm  plain-spoken  an'  true." 

"Don't  be  too  sure — the  son  of  a  thief  may 
have  wrong  ideas  and  lax  principles.  Many 
things  not  to  be  bought  can  easily  be  stolen." 

Again  he  struck  a  sinister  note,  but  this  time 
on  an  ear  wholly  unable  to  appreciate  or  suspect 
it.  Joan  was  occupied  with  Barren's  startling 
scraps  of  biography,  and,  as  usual,  when  he  be- 
gan talking  in  a  way  she  could  not  understand, 
turned  to  her  own  thoughts.  This  sudden  al- 
teration of  his  position  she  took  literally.  It 
struck  her  in  a  happy  light. 

"If  you'm  not  a  gen'leman  then  you  wouldn* 
look  down  'pon  me,  would  'e?' ' 

"God  forbid!     I  look  up  to  you,  Joan." 

She  was  silent,  trying  to  master  this  remark- 
able assertion.  The  artist  stood  no  longer  upon 
that  lofty  pedestal  where  she  had  placed  him ; 
but  the  change  of  attitude  seemed  to  bring  him 
a  little  closer,  and  Joan  forgot  the  fall  in  con- 
templating the  nearer  approach. 

"That's  why  I  asked  you  not  to  call  me  'Mis- 
ter Jan, ' ' '  Barren  added  after  a  pause.  ' '  We  are, 
you  see,  only  different  because  I'm  a  man  and 
you're  a  woman.  Money  merely  makes  a  dif- 
ference to  outside  things,  like  houses  and  clothes. 
But  you've  got  possessions  which  no  money  can 
bring  to  me :  a  happy  home  and  a  lover  coming 
back  to  you  from  the  sea.  Think  what  it  must 
be  to  have  nobody  in  the  world  to  care  wln-th.  r 
you  live  or  die.  Why,  1  haven't  a  relation  n.- n 


LYING   PROPHETS  111 

enough  to  be  even  interested  in  all  my  money — 
there's  loneliness  for  you!" 

Joan  felt  full  of  a  great  pity,  but  could  not 
tell  how  to  express  it.  Even  her  dull  brains 
were  not  slow  enough  to  credit  his  frank  asser- 
tion that  he  and  she  were  equals ;  but  she  ac- 
cepted the  statement  in  some  degree,  and  now, 
with  her  mind  wandering  in  his  lonely  existence, 
wondered  if  she  might  presume  to  express  sym- 
pathy for  him  and  proclaim  herself  his  friend. 
She  hesitated,  for  such  friendship  as  hers,  though 
it  came  hot  from  her  little  heart,  seemed  a  lu- 
dicrous thing  to  offer  this  man.  Every  day  of 
intercourse  with  him  filled  her  more  with  won- 
der and  with  admiration;  every  day  he  occupied 
a  wider  place  in  her  thoughts ;  and  at  that  mo- 
ment his  utterances  and  his  declaration  of  a 
want  in  life  made  him  more  human  than  ever 
to  her,  more  easily  to  be  comprehended,  more 
within  the  reach  of  her  understanding.  And 
that  was  not  a  circumstance  calculated  to  lessen 
her  regard  for  him  by  any  means.  Until  that 
day  he  had  appeared  a  being  far  apart,  whose 
interests  and  main  threads  of  life  belonged  to 
another  sphere;  now  he  had  deliberately  come 
into  her  world  and  declared  it  his  own. 

The  silence  became  painful  to  Joan,  but  she 
could  not  pluck  up  courage  enough  to  tell  the 
artist  that  she  at  least  was  a  friend.  Finally 
she  spoke,  feeling  that  he  waited  for  her  to  do 
so,  and  her  words  led  to  the  point,  for  she  found, 
in  his  answer  to  them,  that  he  took  her  goodwill 
for  granted. 


113  LYING    PROPHETS 

"Ain't  you  got  no  uncles  nor  nothin'  o'  that 
even,  Mister  Jan?" 

He  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"Not  one,  Joan — not  anybody  in  all  the  world 
to  think  twice  about  me  but  you." 

Her  heart  beat  hard  and  her  breath  quick- 
ened, but  she  did  not  speak.  Then  Barron,  put- 
ting down  his  brushes  and  beginning  to  load  a 
pipe,  that  his  next  remark  might  not  seem  too 
serious,  proceeded: 

"I  call  you  'friend,'  Joan,  because  I  know 
you  are  one.  And  I  want  you  to  think  of  me 
sometimes  when  I  am  gone,  will  you?" 

He  went  on  filling  his  pipe,  and  then,  looking 
suddenly  into  her  eyes,  saw  there  a  light  that 
was  strange— a  light  that  he  would  have  given 
his  soul  to  put  into  paint — a  light  that  Joe's 
name  never  had  kindled  and  never  could.  Joan 
wiped  her  hand  across  her  mouth  uneasily ;  then 
she  twisted  her  hands  behind  her  back,  like  a 
schoolgirl  standing  in  class,  and  made  answer 
with  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"Iss,  I  will,  then,  Mister  Jan;  an'  maybe  I 
couldn't  help  it  if  I  would." 

He  lighted  his  pipe  carefully  before  answer- 
ing. 

"Then  I  shall  be  happy,  Joan." 

But  while  she  grew  rose-red  at  the  boldness  of 
her  sudden  announcement,  h«  took  care  neither 
to  look  at  her  nor  to  let  her  know  that  he  had 
realized  the  earnestness  with  which  she  spoke. 
And  when,  ten  minutes  later,  she  had  departed, 
he  mused  sp  ''-ulatively  on  the  course  of  their 


LYING   PROPHETS  113 

conversation,  asking  himself  what  whim  had  led 
him  to  pretend  to  so  much  human  feeling  and 
to  lament  his  loneliness.  This  condition  of  his 
life  he  loved  above  all  others.  No  man,  woman 
or  child  had  the  right  to  interfere  with  his  self- 
ish, impersonal  existence,  and  he  gloried  in  the 
fact.  But  to  the  scraps  of  his  life's  history, 
which  he  had  spread  before  Joan  in  their  abso- 
lute truth,  he  had  added  this  fiction  of  friendless 
loneliness,  and  it  had  worked  a  wonder.  He  saw 
that  he  was  growing  to  be  much  to  her,  and  the 
problem  lying  in  his  path  rose  again,  as  it  had 
for  a  moment  when  Murdoch  warned  him  in  jest 
against  falling  in  love  with  Joan  Tregenza.  Dim 
suspicions  crossed  his  mind  with  greater  fre- 
quency, and  being  now  a  mere  remorseless  sav- 
age, hunting  to  its  completion  a  fine  picture,  he 
made  no  effort  to  shut  their  shadows  from  his 
calculation.  Everything  which  bore  even  indi- 
rectly upon  his  work  received  its  share  of  atten- 
tion ;  to  mood  must  all  sacrifices  be  made ;  and 
now  a  new  mood  began  to  dawn  in  him.  He 
knew  it,  he  accepted  it.  He  had  not  sought  it, 
but  the  thing  was  there,  and  Nature  had  sent  it 
to  him.  To  shun  it  and  fly  from  it  meant  a  lie 
to  his  art ;  to  open  his  arms  to  it  promised  the 
destruction  of  a  human  unit.  Barren  was  not 
the  man  to  hesitate  between  two  such  courses. 
If  any  action  could  heighten  his  inspiration,  add 
a  glimmer  of  glory  to  his  picture,  or  get  a  shadow 
more  soul  into  the  painted  blue  eyes  of  the  sub- 
ject, he  held  such  action  justified.  For  the  pres- 
ent his  mind  was  chaos  on  the  subject,  and  he 


114  LYING   PROPHETS 

left  the  future  to  work  itself  out  as  chance  might 
determine. 

His  painting  was  all  he  concerned  himself 
with,  and  should  Nature  ultimately  indicate  that 
greater  perfection  might  be  achieved  through 
worship  and  even  sacrifice  at  her  shrine,  neither 
worship  nor  sacrifice  would  be  withheld. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

A  WEDDING 

JOAN  TREGENZA  went  home  in  a  dream  that 
day.  She  did  not  know  where  to  begin  think- 
ing. "Mister  Jan"  had  told  her  so  many 
astounding  things ;  and  her  own  heart,  too,  had 
made  bold  utterances — concerning  matters  which 
she  had  crushed  out  of  sight  with  some  shame 
and  many  secret  blushes  until  now.  But,  seen 
in  the  light  of  John  Barron's  revelations,  this 
emotion  which  she  had  thrust  so  resolutely  to 
the  back  of  her  mind  could  remain  there  no 
more.  It  arose  strong,  rampant  and  ridiculous; 
only  from  her  point  of  view  no  humor  distin- 
guished it.  This  man,  then,  was  like  herself, 
made  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  sprung  from 
the  people.  That  fact,  though  possessing  abso- 
lutely no  significance  whatever  in  reality,  struck 
Joan  with  great,  force.  Her  highly  primitive 


LYING  PROPHETS  115 

0 

instincts  stretched  a  wide  gulf  between  the  thing 
called  "gentleman"  and  other  men;  which  was 
the  result  of  training  from  parents  of  the  old- 
fashioned  sort,  whose  world  lay  outside  and 
behind  the  modern  spirit;  who  had  reached  the 
highest  development  of  their  intelligence  and 
formed  their  opinions  before  the  passing  of  the 
Education  Act.  Gray  Michael  naturally  held 
the  great  ones  of  the  earth  as  objects  of  pity 
from  an  eternal  standpoint,  but  birth  weighed 
with  him,  and,  in  temporal  concerns,  he  treated 
his  superiors  with  all  respect  and  civility  when 
rare  chance  brought  him  into  contact  with 
them.  He  viewed  uneasily  the  last  outcome  of 
progress  and  the  vastly  increased  facilities  for 
instruction  of  the  juvenile  population.  The  age 
was  sufficiently  godless,  in  his  judgment;  and  he 
had  found  that  a  Board  School  education  was 
the  first  nail  in  the  coffin  of  every  young  man's 
faith. 

Joan,  therefore,  allowing  nothing  for  the 
value  of  riches,  of  education,  of  intellect,  was 
content  to  accept  Barren's  own  cynical  state- 
ment in  a  spirit  widely  different  from  the  speak- 
er's. He  had  sneered  at  himself,  just  as  he  had 
sneered  at  his  own  dead  father.  But  Joan 
missed  all  the  bitterness  of  his  speech.  To  her 
he  was  simply  a  wondrously  honest  man  who 
loved  truth  for  itself,  who  could  never  utter 
anything  not  true,  who  held  it  no  offense  to 
speak  truth  even  of  the  dead.  Gentle  or  simple, 
he  seemed  infinitely  superior  to  all  men  whom 
she  had  met  with.  And  yet  this  beautiful  nat- 


116  LYING   PROPHETS 

ure  walked  through  the  world  quite  alone.  He 
had  asked  her  to  remember  him  when  he  was 
gone;  he  had  said  that  she  was  his  friend.  And 
he  cared  little  for  women — there  was  perhaps 
no  other  woman  in  the  world  he  had  called  a 
friend.  Then  the  girl's  heart  fluttered  at  the 
presumption  of  her  silly,  soaring  thoughts,  and 
she  glanced  nervously  to  the  right  and  to  the 
left  of  the  lonely  road,  as  though  fearful  that 
some  hidden  eavesdropper  might  peep  into  her 
open  mind.  The  magic  spell  was  upon  her. 
This  little,  pale,  clever  man,  so  quiet,  so  strange, 
so  unlike  anything  else  within  her  seventeen 
years  of  experience,  had  wrought  Nature's  vital 
miracle,  and  Joan,  who,  until  then,  believed 
herself  in  love  with  her  sailor  sweetheart,  now 
stood  aghast  before  the  truth,  stood  bewildered 
between  the  tame  and  bloodless  fantasy  of  her 
affection  for  Joe  Noy  and  this  wild,  live  reality. 
She  looked  far  back  into  a  past  already  dim  and 
remembered  that  she  had  told  Joe  many  times 
how  she  loved  him  with  all  her  heart.  But  the 
words  were  spoken  before  she  knew  that  she 
possessed  a  heart  at  all.  Yet  Joe  then  formed 
no  inconsiderable  figure  in  life.  She  had  looked 
forward  to  marriage  with  him  as  a  comfortable 
and  sufficient  background  for  present  existence ; 
she  had  viewed  Joe  as  a  handsome,  solid  figure 
— a  man  well  thought  of,  one  who  would  give 
her  a  home  with  bigger  rooms  and  better  furni- 
ture in  it  than  most  fishermen's  daughters  might 
reasonably  hope  for.  But  this  new  blinding 
light  was  more  than  the  memory  of  J«M-  could 


LYING   PROPHETS  117 

iace  uninjured.  He  shriveled  and  shrank  in  it. 
Like  St.  Michael's  Mount,  seen  afar,  through 
curtains  of  rain,  Joe  had  once  bulked  large, 
towering,  even  grand,  but  under  noonday  sun 
the  great  mass  dwindles  as  a  whole  though  every 
detail  becomes  more  apparent ;  and  so  with  poor 
Joe  Noy.  Removed  to  a  distance  of  a  thousand 
miles  though  he  was,  Joan  had  never  known 
him  better,  never  realized  the  height,  breadth, 
depth  of  him  so  acutely  as  now  she  did.  The 
former  ignorance  in  such  a  case  had  been  bliss 
indeed,  for  whereunto  her  present  acquired  wis- 
dom might  point  even  she  dared  not  consider. 
Any  other  girl  must  have  remained  sufficiently 
alive  to  the  enormous  disparity  every  way  be- 
tween herself  and  the  artist;  and  Joan  grasped 
the  difference,  but  from  the  wrong  point  of  view. 
The  man's  delicacy  of  discernment,  his  wisdom, 
his  love  of  the  things  which  she  loved,  his  fine 
feeling,  his  humility — all  combined  in  Joan's 
judgment  to  place  him  far  above  herself,  though 
she  had  not  words  to  name  the  qualities;  but 
whereas  another  lowly  woman,  reaching  this 
point,  must,  if  she  possessed  any  mother-wit  or 
knowledge  of  the  world,  have  awakened  to  tho 
danger  and  grown  guarded,  Joan,  claiming  little 
wit  to  speak  of,  and  being  an  empty  vessel  so 
far  as  knowledge  of  the  world  was  concerned, 
saw  no  danger  and  allowed  her  thoughts  to  run 
away  with  her  in  a  wholly  insane  direction. 
This  she  did  for  two  reasons:  because  she  felt 
absolutely  safe,  and  because  she  suspected  that 
Nature,  who  was  "Mister  Jan's"  God,  had  now 


118  LYING    PROPHETS 

come  to  be  her  God  also.  The  man  was  very 
wise,  and  he  hated  everything  which  lacked 
truth :  therefore  he  would  always  do  what  was 
right,  and  he  would  not  be  less  true  to  her  than 
he  was  to  the  world.  Truth  was  his  guiding 
star,  and  he  had  always  found  Nature  true. 
Therefore,  why  should  not  Joan  find  it  true? 
Nature  was  talking  to  her  now  and  teaching  her 
rapidly.  She  must  be  content  to  wait  and  learn. 
The  two  men,  Noy  and  Barron,  fairly  repre- 
sented the  opposite  views  of  life  each  enter- 
tained, and  Joan  felt  the  new  music  wake  a 
thousand  sleeping  echoes  in  her  heart  while  the 
old  grew  more  harsh  and  unlovely  as  she  con- 
sidered it.  Joe  had  so  manj*  opinions  and  so 
little  information;  "Mister  Jan"  knew  every- 
thing and  asserted  nothing  save  what  Nature 
had  taught  him.  Joe  was  so  self-righteous  and 
overbearing,  so  like  her  father,  so  convinced 
that  Luke  Gospeldom  was  the  only  gate  to 
glory;  "Mister  Jan"  had  said  there  was  more 
of  the  Everlasting  God  in  a  bluebell  than  in  the 
whole  of  the  Old  Testament;  he  had  declared 
that  the  smell  of  the  gorse  and  the  sunshine  on 
the  deep  sea  were  better  things  than  the  incense 
and  banners  at  St.  Peter's;  he  had  asserted  that 
the  purring  of  kittens  was  sweeter  to  the  Father 
of  all  than  the  thunder  of  a  mighty  organ  played 
in  the  noblest  cathedral  ever  made  with  hands. 
All  these  foolish  and  inconsequent  comparisons, 
uttered  thoughtlessly  by  Barren's  lips  while  his 
mind  was  on  his  picture,  seemed  very  fine  to 
Joan ;  and  the  finer  because  she  did  not  under- 


LYING   PROPHETS  119 

stand  them.  Again,  Joe  rarely  listened  to  her; 
this  man  always  did,  and  he  liked  to  hear  her 
talk :  he  had  declared  as  much. 

Her  brains  almost  hurt  Joan  on  her  way  back 
to  the  white  cottage  that  morning.  They  seemed 
so  loaded;  they  lifted  her  up  high  above  the 
working-day  world  and  made  her  feel  many 
years  older.  Such  reflections  and  ideas  came  to 
grown  women  doubtless,  she  thought.  A  great 
unrest  arose  from  the  shadows  of  these  varied 
speculations — a  great  unrest  and  disquiet — a 
feeling  of  coming  change,  like  the  note  in  the 
air  when  the  swallows  meet  together  in  autumn, 
like  the  whisper  of  the  leaves  on  the  high  tops 
of  the  forest  before  rain.  Her  heart  was  very 
full.  She  walked  more  slowly  as  the  thoughts 
weighed  heavier;  she  went  back  to  her  home 
round-eyed  and  solemn,  wondering  at  many 
things,  at  the  extension  of  the  horizon  of  life,  at 
the  mental  picture  of  Joe  standing  clearly  out  of 
the  mists,  viewed  from  a  woman's  standpoint. 

That  day  much  serving  awaited  her;  but,  at 
every  turn  and  pause  in  the  small  affairs  of  her 
duty,  Joan's  mind  swooped  back  like  a  hawk  to 
the  easel  on  Gorse  Point;  and  when  it  did,  her 
cheeks  flushed  and  she  turned  to  bend  over  sink 
or  pig's  trough  to  hide  the  new  fire  that  burned 
in  her  heart  and  lighted  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Tregenza,  who  had  suffered  from  neu- 
ralgia and  profound  depression  of  spirit  upon 
Tom's  departure  to  the  sea,  but  who  comforted 
herself  even  in  her  darkest  hour  by  reflection 
that  no  lugger  boy  ever  joined  the  fishing  fleet 


120  LYING   PROPHETS 

with  such  an  equipment  of  new  clothes  as  her 
t  m,  was  somewhat  better  and  more  cheerful 
now  that  the  lad  had  made  his  first  trip  and  sur- 
vived it.  Moreover,  Tom  would  be  home  again 
that  night  in  all  probability,  and,  since  Michael 
was  last  ashore,  the  butcher  from  Paul  had 
called  and  offered  three  shillings  and  sixpence 
more  for  the  next  pig  to  be  killed  than  ever  a 
Tregenza  pig  had  fetched  until  that  day.  Life 
therefore  held  some  prosperity  in  it,  even  for 
Thomasin. 

After  their  dinner  both  women,  the  elder  with 
a  shawl  muffled  about  her  face,  went  down  the 
road  to  Newlyn  to  see  a  sight.  They  stopped  at 
George  Trevennick's  little  house.  It  had  a  gar- 
den in  front  of  it  with  a  short  flagstaff  erected 
thereon,  and  all  looked  neat,  trim  and  ship-shape 
as  became  the  home  of  a  retired  Royal  Navy 
man.  A  wedding  was  afoot,  and  Mr.  Treven- 
nick,  who  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  display 
his  rare  store  of  bunting,  had  plentifully  shaken 
out  bright  reds  and  yellows,  blues  and  greens. 
The  little  flags  fluttered  in  four  streamers  from 
the  head  of  the  flagstaff,  and  their  colors  looked 
harsh  and  crude  until  associated  with  the  human 
interests  they  marked. 

Already  many  children  gazed  with  awe  from 
the  road,  while  a  favored  few,  including  the 
Trogenzas,  stood  in  Mr.  Trevennick's  garden, 
which  was  raised  above  the  causeway.  Great 
good-humor  prevailed,  together  with  some  ques- 
tionable jesting,  and  Joan  heard  the  merriment 
with  a  sense  of  discomfort.  They  would  talk 


LYING   PEOPHETS  121 

like  this  when  Joe  came  back  to  marry  her ;  but 
the  great  day  of  a  maid's  life  had  lost  its  great- 
ness for  her  now.  The  rough,  good-natured  fun 
grated  on  her  nerves  as  it  had  never  grated  be- 
fore; because,  though  she  only  guessed  at  the 
sly  jokes  of  her  elders,  something  told  her  that 
"Mister  Jan"  would  have  found  no  pleasure  in 
such  merriment.  Mrs.  Tregenza  talked,  Mr. 
Trevennick  smoked,  and  Sally  Trevennick,  the 
old  sailor's  daughter,  entertained  the  party  and 
had  a  word  for  all.  She  was  not  young,  and 
not  well-favored,  and  unduly  plump,  but  a  sweet- 
hearted  woman  nevertheless,  with  a  great  love 
for  the  little  children.  This  indeed  presently 
appeared,  for  while  the  party  waited  there  hap- 
pened a  tragedy  in  the  street  which  brought 
extreme  sorrow  to  a  pair  of  very  small  people. 
They  had  a  big  crabshell  full  of  dirt  off  the  road 
which  they  drew  after  them  by  a  string,  and  in 
which  they  took  no  small  pride  and  pleasure; 
but  a  young  sailor,  coming  hastily  round  a 
corner,  trampled  upon  the  shell,  smashed  it,  and 
passed  laughing  on.  The  infants,  overwhelmed 
by  this  sudden  disaster  to  their  most  cherished 
earthly  possession,  crushed  to  the  earth  by  this 
blotting  out  of  the  sunshine  of  the  day,  lifted  up 
their  voices  and  wept  before  the  shattered  ruins. 
One,  the  biggest,  dropped  the  useless  string  and 
put  his  face  against  the  wall,  that  his  extreme 
grief  might  be  hidden;  but  the  smaller  hesitated 
not  to  make  his  sorrows  widely  known.  He 
bawled,  then  took  a  deep  breath  and  bawled 
again.  As  the  full  extent  of  his  loss  was  borne 


122  LYING   PROPHETS 

in  upon  him,  he  absolutely  danced  with  access 
of  frenzied  grief;  and  everybody  laughed  but 
fat  Sally  Trevennick.  Her  black  eyes  grew 
clouded,  and  she  went  down  into  the  road  to 
bring  comfort  to  the  sufferers. 

"Never  mind,  then;  nevermind,  you  bwoys; 
us'll  get  'e  another  braave  shell, so  us  will.  Theer, 
theer,  give  over  an'  come  'long  wi'  me  an'  see 
the  flags.  Theer's  many  bigger  auld  crabshells 
wheer  that  corned  from,  I  lay.  Your  faither'll 
get  'e  another." 

She  took  a  hand  of  each  babe  and  brought 
them  into  the  garden,  from  which  they  could  look 
down  upon  their  fellows.  Such  exaltation  nat- 
urally soothed  their  sufferings,  and  amid  many 
gasps  and  gurgles  they  found  a  return  to  peace 
in  the  close  contemplation  of  Mr.  Trevennick's 
flagstaff  and  the  discussion  of  a  big  saffron 
pasty. 

Presently  the  bridegroom  and  his  young 
brother  passed  on  the  way  to  church.  Both 
looked  the  reverse  of  happy;  both  wore  their 
Sunday  broadcloth,  and  both  swung  along  as 
fast  as  their  legs  would  carry  them.  They  were 
red  hot  and  going  five  miles  an  hour;  but,  though 
Mousehole  men,  everybody  in  Newly n  knew 
them,  and  they  were  forced  to  run  the  gauntlet 
of  much  chaff. 

"Time  was  when  they  did  use  to  thrash  a  new- 
married  couple  to  bed,"  said  Mr.  Trevennick. 
"Twas  an  amoosin'  carcumstance  an'  I've 
'elped  at  many,  but  them  good  auld  (loin's  is 
dyin'  out  fast." 


LYING   PROPHETS  123 

Mrs.  Tregenza  was  discussing  the  bride- 
groom's family. 

"He  be  a  poor  Billy-be-damned  sort  o'  feller, 
I've  all  us  heard,  an'  awnly  a  common  tinner, 
though  his  faither  were  a  grass  cap'n  at  Levant 
Mine." 

"But  he's  a  steady  chap,"  said  Sally;  "an' 
them  in  his  awn  station  sez  he's  reg'lar  at 
church-goin'  an'  well  thot  'pon  by  everybody. 
'Tedn'  all  young  pairs  as  parson'll  ax  out,  I  can 
tell  'e.  He  wants  to  knaw  a  bit  'fore  Vll  marry 
bwoys  an'  gals;  but  theer  weren't  no  trouble 
'bout  Mark  Taskes." 

"Sure  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  Sally,  'cause  if  he 
caan't  do  everything,  everything  won't  be  done. 
They  Penns  be  a  pauper  lot — him  a  fish-jo  us  ter 
as  ain't  so  much  as  his  awn  donkey  an'  cart,  an' 
lame  tu.  Not  that  'twas  his  awn  fault,  I  s'pose, 
but  they  do  say  a  lame  chap's  never  caught  in  a 
good  trick  notwithstandin'." 

"Here  comes  the  weddeners!"  said  Joan, 
"but  'tedn'  a  very  braave  shaw,"  she  added. 
"They'm  all  a-foot,  I  do  b'lieve." 

"Aw,  my  dear  sawl!  look  at  that  now!"  cried 
Mrs.  Tregenza.  "Walkin',  ackshally  walkin'. 
Weil— well!" 

The  little  bride  advanced  between  her  father 
and  mother,  while  relations  and  friends  marched 
two  and  two  behind.  A  vision  it  was  of  age  and 
youth,  of  bright  spring  flowers,  of  spotless  cot- 
ton and  black  broadcloth.  A  matron  or  two 
marched  in  flaming  colors;  a  few  fishermen 
wore  their  blue  jerseys  under  their  reefer  jack- 


124  LYING    PROPHETS 

ets ;  the  smaller  children  were  led  by  hand ;  and 
the  whole  party  numbered  twelve  all  told.  Mr. 
Penn  looked  up  at  the  flags  as  he  limped  along, 
and  a  great  delight  broke  out  upon  his  face ;  the 
bride's  mother  beamed  with  satisfaction  at  a 
compliment  not  by  any  means  expected,  for  the 
Perms  were  a  humble  folk;  and  the  bride 
blushed  and  stole  a  nervous  peep  at  the  display. 
Mr.  Penn  touched  his  hat  to  the  party  in  the 
garden,  and  Mr.  Trevennick,  feeling  the  eye  of 
the  multitude  upon  him,  loudly  wished  the  wed- 
ding party  well  as  it  passed  by. 

"Good  speed  to  'e  an'  to  the  maid,  Bill  Penn. 
May  she  live  'appy  an'  be  a  credit  to  all  parties 
consarned." 

"Thank  'e,  thank  'e,  kindly,  Mr.  Trevennick. 
An'  us  takes  it  mighty  favorable  to  see  your 
butivul  flags  a  hangin'  out — mighty  favorable, 
I  'sure  'e." 

So  the  party  tramped  on  and  ugly  Sally  looked 
after  them  with  dim  eyes;  but  Mrs.  Tregenza's 
thin  voice  dried  them. 

"A  bad  come-along  o't  for  a  gal  to  walk  'pon 
sich  a  day.  They  did  ought  to  a  got  her  a  lift 
to  her  weddin',  come  what  might." 

"Maybe  'tis  all  wan  to  them  poor  dears.  A 
coach  an'  four  'orses  wouldn'  make  that  cheel 
no  better  pleased.  God  bless  her,  did  'e  look 
'ow  she  flickered  up  when  she  seed  faither's 
flags  a  flyin'?" 

"Theer's  a  right  way  an'  a  wrong  o'  doin' 
weddin's,  Sarah,  an'  'tedn'  a  question  whether  a 
gal's  better  pleased  or  no.  It's  all  wan  to  a 


LYING   PROPHETS  125 

dead  corpse  whether  'tis  took  to  the  yard  in  a 
black  hearse  wi'  plumes,  same  as  what  us  shall 
be,  or  whether  'tis  borne  'pon  wan  o'  them  four 
'anded  stretchers  used  for  carryin'  fishin'  nets, 
same  as  poor  Albert  Vallack  was  a  while  back 
— but  wan  way's  proper  an'  t'other  'ednV* 

"They'm  savin'  the  money  for  the  feed. 
Theer's  gwaine  to  be  a  deal  o'  clome  liftin'  at 
Penn's  cottage  bimebye,"  said  another  of  the 
party. 

"No  honeymoon  neither,  so  I  hear  tell,"  added 
Mrs.  Tregenza. 

"But  Taskes  have  bought  flam-new  furniture 
for  his  parlor,  they  sez,"  declared  the  former 
speaker. 

"Of  coorse.  Still  no  honeymoon 'tall!  Who 
ever  heard  tell  of  sich  a  thing  nowadays?  I 
wonder  they  ban't  'shamed." 

"Less  shame,  Mrs.  Tregenza,  than  trapsing 
off  to  Truro  or  somewheers  an'  wastin'  their 
time  an'  spendin'  money  they'll  be  wanting 
back  agin  'fore  Christmas,"  retorted  Sally,  with 
some  warmth. 

But  Mrs.  Tregenza  only  shook  her  head  and 
sighed. 

"You  speaks  as  a  onmarried  wummon,  Sarah ; 
but  if  you  corned  to  be  a  bride  you'd  sing  dif- 
fer'nt.  No  honeymoon's  wrong,  an'  your 
faither'll  tell  the  same." 

Mr.  Trevennick  admitted  that  no  honeymoon 
was  bad.  He  went  further  and  declared  the 
omission  of  such  an  institution  to  be  unprinci- 
pled. He  even  said  that  had  he  known  of  this 


126  LYING    PROPHETS 

serious  defect  in  the  ceremonies  he  should  cer- 
tainly have  abstained  from  lending  the  bright- 
ness of  his  bunting  to  them.  Then  he  went  to 
eye  the  flags  from  different  points  of  view,  while 
Sally,  in  a  minority  of  one,  turned  to  Joan. 

"And  what  do  you  say?"  she  asked.  " You'm 
'mazin'  quiet  an'  tongue-tied  for  you.  I  s'pose 
you'm  thinkin'  of  the  time  when  Joe  Noy  comes 
home.  I  lay  you'll  have  a  honeymoon  any- 
ways." 

"Iss,  that  you  may  depend  'pon,"  said  Mrs. 
Tregenza. 

And  Joan,  who  had  in  truth  been  thinking  of 
her  sweetheart's  return,  grew  red,  whereat  they 
all  laughed.  But  she  felt  secretly  superior  to 
every  one  of  them,  for  the  shrinking  process 
began  to  extend  beyond  Joe  now.  A  fortnight 
before,  she  had  been  much  gratified  by  allusions 
to  the  future  and  felt  herself  an  important  indi- 
vidual enough.  Then,  she  must  have  shared 
her  stepmother's  pity  at  the  poverty  of  the  pag- 
eant which  had  just  passed  by.  But  now  the 
world  had  changed.  Matrimony  with  Joe  Noy 
was  not  a  subject  which  brought  present  delight 
to  her,  but  the  little  bride  who  had  just  gone  to 
her  wedding  filled  Joan's  thoughts.  What  was 
in  that  girl's  heart,  she  greatly  wondered.  Did 
Milly  Penn  feel  for  long-legged  Mark  Taskes 
what  Joan  felt  for  "Mister  Jan"?  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  any  other  woman  had  ever  experienced 
similar  mysterious  splendors  of  mind?  She  could 
not  tell,  but  it  seemed  unlikely  to  her;  it  ap- 
peared improbable  that  an  ordinary  man  had 


LYING   PKOPHETS  127 

power  to  inspire  another  heart  with  such  golden 
magic  as  glorified  her  own. 

Presently  she  departed  with  her  stepmother, 
whereupon  Sally  Trevennick  relieved  her  pent- 
up  feelings. 

"Thank  the  Lard  that  chitter-faaced  wummon 
edn'  gwaine  to  the  weddin'  any  ways!  Us 
knaws  she's  a  dear  good  sawl  'nough;  but  what 
wi'  her  sour  voice,  an'  her  sour  way  o'  talkin', 
an'  her  sour  'pinions,  she'm  enough  to  set  a  rat- 
trap's  teeth  on  edge." 


LYING   PROPHETS 


CHAPTER  TEN 

MOONLIGHT 

THAT  evening  Thomasin  had  another  spasm 
of  faceache  and  went  to  bed  soon  after  drinking 
tea.  Michael  was  due  at  home  about  ten  o'clock 
or  earlier,  and  Joan — having  set  out  supper, 
made  all  ready,  and  ascertained  that  her  step- 
mother had  gone  to  sleep — walked  out  to  the 
pierhead,  there  to  wait  for  Mr.  Tregerusa  and 
Tom.  Under  moonlight,  the  returning  luggers 
crept  homeward,  like  inky  silhouettes  on  a  back- 
ground of  dull  silver.  Every  moment  added  to 
the  forest  of  masts  ancnored  at  the  moorings 
outside  the  harbor;  every  minute  another  row- 
ing-boat shot  between  the  granite  piers,  slid 
silently  into  the  darkness  under  shore,  leaving 
moonlit  rings  widening  out  behind  at  each  dip  of 
the  oars.  Joan  sat  down  under  the  lighthouse 
and  waited  in  the  stillness  for  her  father's  boat. 
Yellow  flashes,  like  fireflies,  twinkled  along 
through  Newlyn,  and  above  them  the  moon 
brought  out  square  patches  of  silver-bright  nx>f 
Been  through  a  blue  night.  Now  and  then  i  bell 
rang  in  the  harbor,  and  lights  leajKHl  hero  and 


LYING   PROPHETS  129 

there,  mingling  red  snakes  and  streamers  of  fire 
with  the  white  moonbeams  where  they  lay  on 
still  water.  Then  Joan  knew  the  fish  were 
being  sold  by  auction,  and  she  grew  anxious  for 
her  father's  return,  fearing  prices  might  have 
fallen  before  he  arrived.  Great  periods  of 
silence  lay  between  the  ringings  of  the  bell,  and 
at  such  times  only  faint  laughter  floated  out 
from  shore,  or  blocks  chipped  and  rattled  as  a 
sail  came  down  or  a  concertina  squeaked  fitfully 
where  it  was  played  on  a  Norwegian  iceboat  at 
the  harbor  quay.  The  tide  ran  high,  and  Joan 
watched  the  lights  reflected  in  the  harbor  and 
wondered  why  the  gold  of  them  contrasted  so  ill 
with  the  silver  from  the  moon. 

Presently  two  men  came  along  to  the  pier- 
head. They  smoked,  looked  at  the  sea,  and  did 
not  notice  her  where  she  sat  in  shadow.  One, 
the  larger,  wore  knickerbockers,  talked  loudly, 
and  looked  a  giant  in  the  vague  light ;  the  other 
was  muffled  up  in  a  big  ulster,  and  Joan  would 
not  have  recognized  Barren  had  he  not  spoken. 
But  he  answered  his  friend,  and  then  the  girl's 
heart  leaped  to  hear  that  quiet,  unimpassioned 
voice.  He  spoke  of  matters  which  she  did  not 
understand,  of  pictures  and  light  and  all  manner 
of  puzzles  set  by  Nature  for  the  solution  of  art; 
but  though  for  the  most  part  his  remarks  con- 
veyed no  meaning  to  her,  yet  he  closed  a  sen- 
tence with  words  that  made  her  happy,  and 
warmed  her  heart  and  left  a  precious  memory 
behind  them. 

"Moonlight  is  a  problem  only  less  difficult 


130  LYING   PROPHETS 

than  sunshine,"  he  said  to  his  friend.  "Where 
are  you  going  to  get  that?"  and  he  pointed  to 
the  sea. 

"It's  been  jolly  well  done  all  the  same." 

"Never.  It  is  not  to  be  done.  You  can  sug- 
gest by  a  trick,  but  God  defend  us  from  tricks 
and  sleight-of-hand  hi  connection  with  the 
solemn  business  of  painting  pictures.  Let  us 
be  true  or  nothing." 

They  walked  away  together,  and  Joan  pon- 
dered over  the  last  words.  Truth  seemed  an 
eternal,  abiding  passion  with  John  Barron,  and 
the  contemplation  of  this  idea  gave  her  consider- 
able pleasure.  She  did  not  know  that  a  man 
may  be  at  once  true  to  his  art  and  a  liar  to  his 
fellows. 

Presently  her  father  returned  with  Tom,  and 
the  three  walked  home  together.  Gray  Michael 
appeared  quietly  satisfied  that  his  son  was  shap- 
ing well  and  showing  courage  and  nerve.  But 
he  silenced  the  lad  quickly  enough  when  Tom 
began  to  talk  with  some  gasconade  concerning 
greet  deeds  done  westward  of  the  Scilly  Islands. 

"  'Let  another  man  praise  thee  an'  not  thine 
awn  mouth,'  my  bwoy,"  said  Mr.  Tregenza. 
"It  ban't  the  wave  as  makes  most  splash  what 
gaws  highest  up  the  beach,  mind.  You  get  Joan 
to  teach  'e  how  to  peel  'taties,  'cause  'tis  a  job 
you  made  a  tidy  bawk  of,  not  to  mention  no 
other.  Keep  your  weather-eye  liftin'  an'  your 
tongue  still.  Then  you'll  do.  -An'  mind— the 
bwoat's  clean  as  a  smelt  by  five  o'clock  to-mor- 
row marnin',  an'  no  later." 


LYING   PROPHETS  131 

Tom,  dashed  by  these  base  details,  answered 
seaman  fashion : 

"Ay,  ay,  farther." 

Then  they  all  tramped  home,  and  the  boy 
enjoyed  the  glories  of  a  late  supper,  though  he 
was  half  asleep  before  he  had  finished  it. 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

THE    KISS 

BY  half -past  five  o'clock,  Mr.  Tregenza's  blacfc 
lugger  was  off  again  in  a  gray  dawn  all  tangled 
with  gold  on  the  eastern  horizon. 

His  mother  had  given  Tom  an  early  breakfast 
at  half-past  four,  and  the  youngster,  agape  and 
dim-eyed  at  first,  speedily  brightened  up,  for  he 
had  a  willing  listener  in  the  candle-light  and 
poured  a  tale  of  moving  incidents  into  Thom- 
asin's  proud  but  uneasy  mind. 

"Them  Pritchards  sez  as  they'll  make  a 
busker*  of  me,  'cause  it  blawed  a  bit  isster- 
day  marnin',  but  'twas  all  wan  to  me;  an'  you 
abbun  no  call  to  fret  yourself,  nohow,  mother, 
'cause  faither's  'lowed  to  be  the  best  sailor  in 

*  Busker — 'A  rare  good  fisherman. 


132  LYING   PROPHETS 

the  fleet  an*  theer  ban't  a  better  foul-weather 
boat  sails  from  Newlyn  than  ourn." 

He  chattered  on,  larding  his  discourse  with 
new  words  picked  up  aboard,  and  presently 
rolled  off  to  get  things  shipshape  just  as  his 
father  came  down  to  breakfast. 

When  the  men  had  gone,  little  remained  to 
be  done  that  day,  and,  by  half -past  seven,  about 
which  hour  Mrs.  Tregenza  went  into  the  village 
that  she  might  whine  with  a  widow  who  had 
two  boys  in  the  fleet,  Joan  found  herself  free 
until  the  afternoon.  She  determined  therefore 
to  reach  Gorse  Point  before  the  artist  should 
arrive  there,  and  set  off  accordingly. 

Early  though  she  was,  she  had  but  a  short  time 
to  wait,  for  Barron  appeared  with  his  big  canvas 
by  nine  o'clock.  She  thought  he  showed  more 
pleasure  than  usual  at  the  sight  of  her.  Cer- 
tainly he  shook  hands  and  congratulated  her 
upon  such  early  hours. 

"This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  Joan.  You 
must  have  been  up  betimes  indeed." 

"Iss  fay,  us  took  breakfus'  by  five,  an' 
faither  sailed  'fore  half-past.  'Tis  busy  times 
for  tishiif  folk  when  the  mackerl  begins 
shoalin'." 

"I'm  glad  I  came  back  to  my  den  in  the  fields 
yonder  and  didn't  stop  in  Newlyn  last  night. 
You  must  see  my  little  cow-byre  some  day  or 
other,  Joan.  I've  made  it  wonderfully  snug. 
Farmer  Ford  is  good  enough  to  let  me  take  pos- 
session of  it  for  the  present;  and  I've  got  food 
and  drink  stowed  away,  and  a  beautiful  bed  of 


LYING   PROPHETS  133 

sweet,  withered  bracken.  I  sleep  well  there, 
and  the  dawn  comes  in  and  wakens  me." 

"You  ban't  feared  o'  piskeys  nor  nothin'  in  a 
lawnsome  plaace  like  thicky  byre?" 

"No,  no  —  the  rats  are  rather  intrusive, 
though." 

"But  they'm  piskeys  or  spriggans  so  like's 
not!  You  see,  the  lil  people  takes  all  manner 
o'  shaapes,  Mister  Jan ;  an'  they  chaanges  'em 
tu,  but  every  time  they  chaanges  they've  got  to 
alter  into  somethin'  smaller  than  what  they  was 
before.  An'  so,  in  coorse  of  time,  they  do  say 
they  comes  down  into  muryans  an'  such  like 
insects." 

"Piskeys  or  no  piskeys,  I've  caught  several  in 
a  trap  and  killed  them." 

"They'm  gashly  things,  rats,  an'  I  shouldn't 
think  as  no  good  piskeys  would  turn  into  var- 
mints like  them." 

"More  should  I.  But  something  better  than 
rats  came  to  see  me  last  night,  Joan.  Guess 
who  it  was." 

"I  dunnaw." 

"Why,  you  came!" 

"Me,  Mister  Jan !    You  must  a  bin  dreamin' !" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  was;  but  such  a  lovely 
dream.  Joan!  You  see,  men  who  paint  pict- 
ures and  love  what  is  beautiful  and  dream  about 
beautiful  things  and  beautiful  people  see.  all  sorts 
of  visions  sometimes.  I  haye  pictures  in  my 
head  a  thousand  times  more  splendid  than  any 
I  shall  ever  put  upon  canvas,  because  mere 
paint-brushes  cannot  do  much,  even  when  they 


134  LYING   PROPHETS 

are  in  the  cleverest  hands;  but  a  man's  brain  is 
not  bound  down  by  material,  mechanical  mat- 
ters. My  brain  made  a  picture  of  you  last  night 
— a  picture  that  came  and  looked  at  me  on  my 
fern  bed — a  picture  so  real,  so  alive  that  I  could 
see  it  move  and  hear  it  laugh.  You  think  that 
wonderful.  It  isn't  really,  because  my  brain 
has  done  nothing  but  think  of  you  now  for 
nearly  six  weeks.  My  eye  studies  you  and 
stamps  you  upon  my  brain;  then,  when  night 
comes,  and  no  man  works,  and  the  world  is 
dark  and  silent,  my  brain  sets  off  on  its  own  ac- 
count and  raises  up  a  magic  vision  just  to  show 
me  what  you  really  are — how  different  to  this 
poor  daub  here." 

"Lard,  Mister  Jan!  I  never  heard  tell  of  sich 
a  coorious  thing  as  that." 

"And  the  pretty  dream- Joan  can  talk  almost 
as  well  as  you  can !  "Why,  last  night,  while  I 
was  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  sho  put  her 
hand  upon  my  shoulder  and  said  kind  things, 
but  I  dared  not  move  or  kiss  her  hand  at  first 
for  fear  she  would  vanish  if  I  did." 

Joan  laughed. 

"That  is  a  funny  story,  sure  'nough,"  she 
said.  "I  'specs  'twas  awnly  another  fairy  body, 
arter  all." 

"No,  it  wasn't.  She  had  your  voice  and  your 
spirit  in  her;  and  that  picture  which  my  brain 
painted  for  me  was  so  much  better  than  the 
thing  my  band  has  painted  that,  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  was  almost  tempted  to  destroy  this  alto- 
gether. But  I  didn't." 


LYING   PROPHETS  135 

"An'  what  did  this  here  misty  sort  o'  maid 
say  to  'e?" 

"Strange  things,  strange  things.  Things  I 
would  give  a  great  deal  to  hear  you  say.  It 
seemed  that  you  had  come,  Joan,  it  seemed  that 
you  had  purposely  come  from  your  little  cottage 
on  the  cliff  through  the  darkness  before  dawn. 
Why?  To  share  my  loneliness,  to  brighten  my 
poor  shadowy  life.  Dreams  are  funny  things, 
are  they  not?  What  d'you  think  you  said?" 

"Sure  I  dunnaw." 

"Why,  you  said  that  you  were  not  going  to 
leave  me  any  more ;  that  you  believed  in  me  and 
that  you  had  come  to  me  because  it  was  bad  for 
a  man  to  live  all  alone  in  the  world.  You  said 
that  you  felt  alone  too — without  me.  And  it 
made  me  feel  happy  to  hear  you  say  that,  though 
I  knew,  all  the  time,  that  it  was  not  the  real 
beautiful  Joan  who  spoke  to  me." 

Thereupon  the  girl  asked  a  question  which 
seemed  to  argue  some  sharpening  of  intelligence 
within  her. 

"An'  when  I  spoke  that,  what  did  you  say, 
Mister  Jan?" 

"I  didn't  say  anything  at  all.  I  just  took 
that  sweet  Joan-of-dreams  into  my  arms  and 
kissed  her." 

He  was  looking  listlessly  out  over  the  sea  as 
he  spoke,  and  Joan  felt  thankful  his  eyes  were 
turned  away  from  her,  for  this  wonderful  dream 
incident  made  her  grow  hot  all  over.  He  seemed 
to  divine  by  her  silence  that  his  answer  to  her 
question  had  not  added  to  her  happiness. 


136  LYING    PROPHETS 

"I  shouldn't  have  told  you  that,  Joan,  only 
you  asked  me.  You  see,  in  dreams,  we  are  real 
in  some  senses,  though  unreal  in  others.  In 
dreams  the  savage  part  of  us  comes  to  the  top 
and  Nature  can  whisper  to  us..  She  chooses 
night  to  do  so  and  often  speaks  to  men  in 
visions,  because  by  day  the  voice  of  the  world 
is  in  their  ears  and  they  have  no  attention  for 
any  other.  It  was  strange,  too,  that  I  should 
fancy  such  a  thing — should  imagine  I  was  kiss- 
ing you — because  I  never  kissed  a  woman  in  my 
life." 

But  from  her  point  of  view  this  falsehood  was 
not  so  alluring  as  he  meant  to  make  it  sound. 

"  'Twould  be  wrong  to  kiss  any  maiden,  I 
reckon,  onless  you  was  tokened  to  her  or  she 
were  your  awn  sister." 

"But,  as  we  look  at  life,  we're  all  brothers 
and  sisters,  Joan — with  Nature  for  our  mother. 
We  agreed  about  that  long  ago." 

He  turned  to  his  easel,  and  she  went  and  stood 
where  her  feet  had  already  made  a  brown  mark 
on  the  grass. 

"I  seen  you  last  night,  but  you  dedn*  see 
me,"  she  said,  changing  the  conversation  with 
abruptness. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  he  answered,  "sitting  under  the 
shadow  of  the  lighthouse,  waiting  for  Mr.  Tre- 
genza,  I  expect." 

"An*  you  never  took  no  note  o'  me!" 

He  flung  down  his  brushes,  turned  away  from 
the  picture  before  he  had  touched  it,  and  went 
and  lay  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 


LYING   PROPHETS  137 

"Come  here,  Joan,  and  I  will  tell  you  why  I 
didn't  notice  you,  though  I  longed  to  do  so. 
Come  and  sit  down  by  me  and  I'll  explain  why 
I  seemed  so  rude.*' 

She  came  slowly  and  sat  down  some  distance 
from  him,  putting  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and 
looking  away  to  sea. 

" 'Tweern't  kind,"  she  said,  "but  when 
you'm  with  other  folks,  I  s'pose  you'm 
ashamed  o'  me  'spite  what  you  tawld  me 
'bout  yourself." 

"You  mustn't  say  that,  Joan,  or  you'll  make 
me  unhappy.  Ashamed  of  you!  Is  it  likely 
I'm  ashamed  of  the  only  friend  I've  got  in  the 
world?  No,  I'm  frightened  of  losing  you;  I'm 
selfish ;  I  couldn't  make  you  known  to  any  other 
man  because  I  should  be  afraid  you'd  like  him 
better  than  me,  and  then  I  should  have  no  friend 
at  all.  So  I  wouldn't  speak  and  reveal  my  treas- 
ure to  anybody  else.  I'm  very  fond  of  my  friend, 
and  very  proud  of  her,  and  as  greedy  as  a  miser 
over  his  gold." 

Joan  took  a  long  breath  before  this  tremen- 
dous assertion.  He  had  told  her  in  so  many 
words  that  he  was  fond  of  her ;  and  he  had  men- 
tioned it  most  casually  as  a  point  long  since  de- 
cided. Here  was  the  question  which  she  had 
asked  herself  so  often  answered  once  for  all. 
Her  heart  leaped  at  tidings  of  great  joy,  and  as 
she  looked  up  into  his  face  the  man  saw  infinite 
wonder  and  delight  in  her  own.  Mind  was 
adding  beauty  to  flesh,  and  he,  fast  losing  the 


138  LYING   PROPHETS 

artist's  instinct  before  another,  thought  she  had 
never  looked  so  lovely  as  then. 

"Oh,  Mister  Jan,  you'm  fond  o'  me!" 

"Why,  didn't  you  know  it,  Joan?  Did  it  want 
my  words  to  tell  you  so?  Hadn't  you  guessed 
it?" 

He  rose  slowly  and  approached  his  pict- 
ure. 

"Oh,  how  I  wish  this  was  a  little  more  like 
my  dream  and  like  reality !  I  need  inspiration, 
Joan;  I  have  reached  a  point  beyond  which  I 
cannot  go.  My  colors  are  dead;  my  soul  is 
dead.  Something  must  happen  to  me  or  I  shall 
never  finish  this." 

"Ban't  you  so  well  as  you  was?" 

"No,  Joan,  I'm  not.  A  thing  has  come  be- 
tween me  and  my  happiness,  between  me  and 
my  picture.  I  know  not  what  to  call  it.  Nat- 
ure has  sent  it." 

"Then  'tis  right  an'  proper,  I  s'pose?" 

"I  suppose  so,  but  it  stops  work.  It  makes 
my  hand  shake  and  my  heart  throb  fast  and  my 
brains  grow  hot." 

"Can't  'e  take  no  physic  for't?" 

"Why,  yes,  but  I  hesitate." 

He  turned  to  her  and  went  close  to  her. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,  Joan — close — very  close 
— so  close  that  I  can  feel  your  breath.  It  WHS 
so  easy  to  learn  the  furze ;  it  is  so  hard  to  learn 
you." 

"Sure  I've  corned  out  butivul  in  the  pick- 
sher." 

"Not  yet,  not  yet." 


LYING   PROPHETS  139 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  looked 
into  her  eyes  until  she  grew  nervous  and  brushed 
her  hand  across  her  cheek.  Then,  without  a 
second's  warning,  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her 
on  the  mouth. 

"Mister  Jan!  How  could  'e!  "Tis  wrong — 
wrong  of  'e!  I'd  never  a  thot — " 

She  started  from  him,  wild,  alarmed,  blush- 
ing hotly;  and  he  shook  his  head  at  her 
dismay  and  answered  very  calmly,  very 
seriously : 

"It  was  not  wrong,  Joan,  or  I  should  not  have 
done  it.  You  heard  me  ask  to  whom  I  should 
pray  for  inspiration,  and  Nature  told  me  I  must 
seek  it  from  you.  And  I  have." 

"You  shouldn't  never  a  done  it.  I  trusted  'e 
so!" 

"But  I  had  to  do  it.  Nature  said  'Kiss  her, 
and  you  will  find  what  you  want.'  Do  you  un- 
derstand that?  I  have  touched  you  and  I  am 
awake  and  alive  again;  I  have  touched  you, 
Joan,  and  I  am  not  hopeless  and  sad,  but  happy. 
Nature  thought  of  me,  Joan,  when  she  made 
you  and  brought  you  into  the  world ;  and  she 
thought  of  sweet  Joan  when  she  fashioned  Jan. 
Believe  it — you  must  believe  it." 

"You  did  ought  to  a  arsked  me." 

"Listen.  Nature  let  you  live  quiet  in  the 
country — for  me,  Joan.  She  let  me  live  all 
lonely  in  the  world — for  you.  Only  for  you. 
Can't  you  understand?" 

"You  did  ought  to  a  arsked  me.  Kissing  be 
wrong  'tween  us.  You  knaws  it,  Mr.  Jan." 


140  LYING   PROPHETS 

"It  is  right  and  proper  and  fair  and  beauti- 
ful," he  said  quietly.  "My  heart  sang  when  I 
kissed  you,  Joan,  and  so  did  yours.  D'you 
know  why?  Because  we  are  two  halves  of  a 
whole.  Because  the  sunshine  of  your  life  would 
go  out  without  me ;  because  my  life,  which  never 
had  any  sunshine  in  it  until  now,  has  been  full 
of  sunshine  since  I  knew  Joan." 

"I  dunnaw.  'Twadden  a  proper  thing  to  do, 
seein'  how  I  trusted  'e." 

"We  are  children  of  Nature,  Joan.  I  always 
do  what  she  tells  me.  I  can't  help  it.  I  have 
obeyed  her  all  my  life.  She  tells  me  to  love 
you,  Joan,  and  I  do.  I'm  very  sorry.  I 
thought  she  had  told  you  to  love  me,  but 
I  suppose  I  was  wrong.  Never  mind  this 
once.  Forgive  me,  Joan.  I'll  even  fight  Nat- 
ure rather  than  make  you  angry  with  me. 
Let  me  finish  my  picture  and  go  away.  Come. 
I've  no  business  to  waste  your  precious  time, 
though  you  have  been  so  kind  and  generous 
with  it.  Only  I  was  tired  and  hopeless  and  you 
came  like  a  drink  of  wine  to  me,  Joan;  and  I 
drank  too  much,  I  suppose." 

He  picked  up  his  brushes,  spoke  in  a  sad  minor 
key,  and  seemed  crushed  and  weary.  The  flash 
died  from  his  face  and  he  looked  older  again. 
Joan,  the  mistress  of  the  situation,  found  it 
wholly  bitter.  She  was  bewildered,  for  affairs 
had  proceeded  with  such  rapidity.  He  had  de- 
clared frankly  that  he  loved  her,  and  yet  had 
stopped  there.  To  her  ideas  it  was  impossible 
that  a  man  should  say  as  much  as  that  fa  n  wo- 


LYING   PROPHETS  141 

man  and  no  more.  Love  invariably  meant  ulti- 
mate union  for  life,  Joan  thought.  She  could 
not  understand  any  other  end  to  it.  The  man 
talked  about  Nature  as  a  little  child  talks  of  its 
mother.  He  had  deemed  himself  entirely  in  the 
right;  yet  something — not  Nature,  she  supposed 
— had  told  her  that  he  was  wrong.  But  who 
was  she  to  judge  him?  Who  was  she  to  say 
where  his  conduct  erred?  He  loved  truth.  It 
was  not  a  He  to  kiss  a  girl.  He  promised  nothing. 
How  could  he  promise  anything  or  propose  any- 
thing? "Was  she  not  another  man's  sweet- 
heart? That  doubtless  had  been  the  reason 
why  he  had  said  no  more  than  that  he  loved 
her.  To  love  her  could  be  no  sin.  Nature 
had  told  him  to;  and  God  knew  how  she 
loved  him  now. 

But  she  could  not  make  it  up  with  him.  A 
cold  curtain  seemed  to  have  fallen  between 
them.  The  old  reserve  which  had  only  melted 
after  many  meetings,  was  upon  him  again.  He 
stood,  as  it  seemed,  on  the  former  pedestal.  A 
strange,  surging  sensation  filled  her  head — a 
sense  of  helpless  fighting  against  a  flood  of  un- 
happy affairs.  All  the  new  glory  of  life  was 
suddenly  tarnished  through  her  own  act,  and 
she  felt  that  things  could  never  be  the  same 
again. 

She  thought  and  thought.  Then  John  Bar- 
ron  saw  Joan's  blue  eyes  begin  to  wink  omi- 
nously, the  corners  of  her  bonny  mouth  drag 
down  and  something  bright  twinkle  over  her 
cheek.  He  took  no  notice,  and  when  he  looked 


142  LYING   PROPHETS 

up  again,  she  had  moved  away  and  was  sitting 
on  the  grass  crying  bitterly  with  her  hands  over 
her  face.  The  sun  was  bright,  a  lark  sang  over- 
head ;  from  adjacent  inland  fields  came  the  jolt 
and  clank  of  a  plow  with  a  man's  voice  calling 
to  his  horses  at  the  turns.  The  artist  put  down 
his  palette  and  walked  over  to  Joan. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "d'you  know 
what's  making  you  so  unhappy?" 

She  sobbed  on  and  did  not  answer. 

"I  can  tell  you,  I  think.  You  don't  quite 
know  whether  to  believe  me  or  not,  Joan.  That 
is  very  natural.  Why  should  you  believe  me? 
And  yet  if  you  knew— 

She  sat  up,  swallowed  some  of  her  tears,  and 
smudged  her  face  with  her  knuckles.  He  took 
a  clean  handkerchief  from  his  pocket  and  handed 
it  to  her.  It  was  cool  and  pleasant,  and  she 
went  on  crying  a  while,  but  tears  which  were 
comforting  and  different  to  the  first  stinging 
drops  bred  from  a  sudden,  forlorn  survey  of  life. 
He  talked  on,  and  his  voice  soothed  her.  He 
kept  his  distance,  and  presently,  as  her  ruffled 
spirit  grew  calmer,  his  remarks  assumed  a 
brighter  note. 

"Has  my  poor  little  Lady  of  the  Gorse  for- 
given me  at  last?  She  won't  punish  me  any 
more,  I  know,  and  it  is  a  very  terrible  punish- 
ment to  see  tears  in  her  eyes." 

Then  she  found  her  tongue  again  and  words 
to  answer  him,  together  with  fluttering  sighs 
that  told  the  tears  were  ended. 

"I  dunnaw  why  for  I  cried,   Mr.  Jan,  but  I 


LYING   PROPHETS  143 

seemed  'mazed  like.  I'm  a  stupid  fule  of  a 
maid,  I  reckon,  an'  I  s'pose  'tis  auld-fashioned 
notions  as  I've  got  'bout  what  be  right  an' 
wrong.  But,  coorse,  you  knaws  better'n  what 
I  can ;  an'  you'd  do  me  no  hurt  'cause  you  loves 
me — you've  said  it;  an' — an' — I  love  'e  tu,  Mis- 
ter Jan,  I  'sure  'e — better'n  anything  in  all  the 
world." 

"Why,  that's  good,  sweet  news,  Joan;  and 
Nature  told  me  the  truth  after  all!  "We're 
bound  to  love  one  another.  She  made  us  for 
that  very  reason!" 

He  knew  that  her  mind  was  full  of  the  tangles 
of  life  and  that  she  wanted  him  to  solve  some  of 
the  riddles  just  then  uppermost  in  her  own  exist- 
ence. He  felt  that  Joe  was  in  her  thoughts,  and 
he  easily  divined  her  unuttered  question  as  to 
why  Nature  had  sent  Joe  before  she  had  sent 
him.  But,  though  answers  and  explanations  of 
her  troubles  were  not  likely  to  be  difficult,  he 
had  no  wish  to  make  them  or  to  pursue  the  sub- 
ject just  then.  Indeed,  he  bid  Joan  depart  an 
hour  before  she  need  have  done  so.  Her  face 
was  spoiled  for  that  sitting,  and  matters  had  pro- 
gressed up  to  the  threshold  of  the  barrier.  Be- 
fore that  could  be  broken  down,  she  must  be 
made  to  feel  that  she  was  necessary  to  the  hap- 
piness of  his  life;  as  he  already  felt  that  she 
was  necessary  to  the  completion  of  his  picture. 
She  loved  him  very  dearly,  and  he,  though  love 
was  not  possible  to  his  nature,  could  feel  the 
substitute.  He  had  fairly  stepped  out  of  his  im- 
personal shell  into  reality.  Presently  he  would 


1*4  LYING   PROPHETS 

return  to  his  shell  again.  For  a  moment  a 
model  had  grown  more  to  him  than  a  picture; 
and  he  told  himself  that  he  must  obey  Nature 
in  order  adequately  to  serve  Art. 

He  picked  up  the  handkerchief  he  had  lent 
Joan,  looked  at  the  dampness  of  the  tear-stains, 
and  then  spread  it  in  the  sun  to  dry. 


LYING   PROPHETS  145 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

JOAN  WALKS   HOME 

WHILE  John  Barren  determined  that  a  space 
of  time  extending  over  some  days  should  now 
separate  him  from  Joan,  she,  for  her  part,  had 
scarce  left  Gorse  Point  after  the  conversation 
just  chronicled  when  there  came  a  great  longing 
in  her  heart  to  return  thither.  As  she  walked 
home  she  viewed  wearily  the  hours  which  lay 
between  her  and  the  following  morning  when 
she  might  go  back  to  him  and  see  his  face  again. 
Time  promised  to  drag  for  the  next  day  and 
night.  Already  she  framed  in  her  mind  the 
things  her  mouth  should  say  to-morrow;  and 
that  almost  before  she  was  beyond  sight  of  the 
man's  easel.  Her  fears  had  vanished  with  her 
tears.  The  future  was  entirely  in  his  hand  now, 
for  she  had  accepted  his  teaching,  endeavored 
to  look  at  life  with  his  eyes,  made  his  God  her 
own,  so  far  as  she  had  wit  to  gather  what  his 
God  was.  She  accepted  the  situation  with  trust, 
and  felt  responsibility  shifted  on  to  "Mister 
Jan's"  shoulders  with  infinite  relief.  He  was 
very  wise  and  knew  everything  and  loved  the 
truth.  It  is  desirable  to  harp  and  harp  upon 
this  ever-recurring  thought:  the  artist's  grand 


146  LYING    PROPHETS 

love  for  truth;  because  all  channels  of  Joan's 
mind  flowed  into  this  lake.  His  sincerity  begat 
absolute  trust.  And,  as  John  Barren  and  his 
words  and  thoughts  filled  the  foreground  of  life 
for  her,  so,  correspondingly,  did  the  affairs  of 
her  home,  with  all  the  circumstances  of  exist- 
ence in  the  old  environment,  peak  and  dwindle 
toward  shadowy  insignificance.  Her  father  lost 
his  majestic  proportions ;  the  Luke  Gospelers  be- 
came mere  objects  for  compassion;  the  petty, 
temporal  interests  and  concerns  of  the  passing 
hour  appeared  mere  worthless  affairs  for  the  oc- 
cupation and  waste  of  time.  "Mister  Jan"  loved 
her,  and  she  loved  him,  and  what  else  mattered? 
Past  hours  of  unrest  and  wakefulness  were  for- 
gotten; her  tears  washed  the  dead  anxieties 
clean  away;  and  the  kiss  which  had  caused 
them,  though  it  scorched  her  lip  when  it  fell 
there,  was  now  set  as  a  seal  and  a  crowning 
glory  to  her  life.  He  never  kissed  any  other  wo- 
man. That  pledge  of  this  rare  man's  affection 
had  been  won  by  the  magic  of  love,  and  Joan 
welcomed  Nature  gladly  and  called  it  God  with 
a  warm  heart  and  thankful  soul;  for  Nature 
had  brought  about  this  miracle.  Her  former 
religion  worked  no  wonders ;  it  had  only  con- 
veyed terror  to  her  and  a  comprehensive  knowl- 
edge of  hell.  "Mister  Jan"  smiled  at  hell  and 
she  could  laugh  at  her  old  fears.  How  was  it 
possible  to  hesitate  between  two  such  creeds? 
She  did  not  do  so,  and,  with  final  acceptation  of 
the  new,  and  secret  rejection  of  the  old,  came 
a  great  peace  to  Joan's  heart  with  the  whisper 


LYING   PROPHETS  147 

of  many  voices  telling  her  that  she  had  done 
rightly. 

So  the  storm  gave  place  to  periods  of  delicious 
calm  and  content  only  clouded  by  a  longing  to 
be  back  with  the  artist  again.  He  loved  her; 
the  voice  of  his  love  was  the  song  of  the  spring 
weather,  and  the  thrush  echoed  it  and  the  early 
flowers  wrote  it  on  the  hedgerows.  God  was 
everywhere  to  her  open  eyes.  Everything  that 
was  beautiful,  everything  that  was  good,  seemed 
to  have  been  created  for  her  delight  during  that 
homeward  walk.  She  was  mightily  lifted  up. 
Nature  seemed  so  strong,  so  kind,  such  a  guar- 
dian angel  for  a  maiden.  And  the  birds  sang 
out  that  "Mister  Jan"  was  Nature's  priest  and 
could  do  no  wrong;  and  that  to  obey  Nature 
was  the  highest  good. 

From  which  reflection  rose  a  hazy  happiness 
— dim,  beautiful  and  indefinable  as  the  twinkling 
gold  upon  the  sea  under  the  throne  of  the  sun. 
Joan  dwelt  on  the  memor}"  of  the  day  which 
was  now  over  for  her,  and  on  the  thought  of 
morning  hours  which  to-morrow  would  bring. 
But  she  looked  no  further;  and  backward  she 
did  not  gaze  at  all.  No  thought  of  Joe  Noy 
dimmed  her  mental  delight;  no  shadowy  cloud 
darkened  the  horizon  then.  All  was  bright,  all 
perfect.  Her  mind  seemed  to  be  breaking  its 
little  case,  as  the  butterfly  bursts  the  chrysalis. 
Her  life  till  then  had  been  mere  grub  existence ; 
now  she  could  fly  and  had  seen  the  sun  drawing 
the  scent  from  flowers.  Great  ideas  filled  her 
soul;  new  emotions  awoke;  she  was  like  a  baby 


148  LYING    PROPHETS 

trying  to  utter  the  thing  he  has  no  word  for; 
her  vocabulary  broke  down  under  the  strain, 
and  as  she  walked  she  gave  thanks  to  Nature 
in  a  mere  wordless  song,  like  the  lark,  because 
she  could  not  put  her  acknowledgment  into  lan- 
guage. But  the  great  Mother,  to  whom  Life  is 
all  in  all,  the  living  individual  nothing,  looked 
on  at  a  world  wakening  from  sleep  and  viewed 
the  loves  of  the  flowers  and  the  loves  of  the  birds 
and  beasts  and  fishes  with  concern  as  keen  as 
the  love  in  the  blue  eyes  of  Joan  upon  her  home- 
ward way. 

Busy  indeed  at  this  vernal  season  was  the 
mj-sterious  Nurse  of  God's  little  world.  Her 
hands  rested  not  from  her  labors.  She  worked 
strange  wonders  on  the  waste,  by  magic  of  a 
million  breaking  buds,  by  burying  of  the  dead, 
by  wafting  of  subtle  pollen-life  from  blossom  to 
blossom.  And  in  cliffs  above  the  green  waters 
the  nests  of  her  wild-fowl  were  already  lined 
with  wool  and  feather;  neither  were  her  sam- 
phires forgotten  in  their  dizzy  habitations;  and 
salt  spray  sprinkled  her  uncurling  sea  ferns  in 
caves  and  crannies  where  they  grew.  She 
laughed  at  the  porpoises  rolling  their  fat  sides 
into  sunshine;  she  brought  the  sea-otter  where 
it  should  find  fish  for  its  young;  she  led  giant 
congers  to  drowned  men ;  she  patted  the  sleek 
head  of  the  sad-eyed  seal.  Elsewhere  she 
showed  the  father-hawk  a  leveret  crouching 
in  Im  form ;  she  took  young  rabbits  to  the  new 
spring  grass;  the  fox  to  the  fowl,  the  fly  to  the 
spider,  the  blight  to  the  bud.  Her  weakly  nest- 


LYING   PROPHETS  149 

lings  fell  from  tree  and  cliff  to  die,  but  she  be- 
held unmoved;  her  weasel  sucked  the  gray- 
bird's  egg,  yet  no  hand  was  raised  against  the 
thief,  no  voice  comforted  the  screaming  agony 
of  the  mother.  "With  the  van  of  her  legions  she 
moved,  and  the  suffering  stragglers  cried  in 
vain,  for  her  concerns  were  not  with  them.  She 
did  no  right,  she  worked  no  evil;  she  was  not 
cruel,  neither  shall  we  call  her  kind.  The  ser- 
vant of  God  was  she,  then  as  always,  heedful  of 
His  utterances,  obedient  to  His  laws.  Which 
laws,  when  man  better  divines,  he  shall  learn 
thy  secret  too,  Nurse  of  the  world,  but  not 
sooner. 


160  LYING    PROPHETS 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

LONELY  DAYS 

HAVING  already  learned  from  experience  that 
hard  work  quickens  the  flight  of  time,  Joan, 
returning  in  happy  mood  to  her  home  and  with 
no  trace  of  the  past  tears  upon  her  cheeks,  sur- 
prised Mrs.  Tregenza  by  a  display  of  most  un- 
usual energy  and  activity.  She  helped  the 
butcher  to  get  the  pig  into  a  low  cart  built  ex- 
pressly for  the  conveyance  of  such  un wield}* 
animals;  she  looked  mournfully  at  her  depart- 
ing companion,  knowing  that  the  morrow  had 
nothing  for  him  but  a  knife,  that  he  had  eaten 
his  last  meal.  And  while  Joan  listened  to  the 
farewell  grunts  of  the  fattest  pig  which  had  ever 
adorned  her  father's  sty,  Mrs.  Tregenza  counted 
the  money  and  bit  a  piece  here  and  there,  and 
wondered  if  she  could  get  the  next  young  pig 
from  Uncle  Chirgwin  for  even  a  lower  figure 
than  the  last. 

The  day  which  had  wrought  such  wonders  for 
Joan's  inner  life,  and  brought  to  her  eyes  a  sort 
of  tears  unshed  till  then,  ended  at  last,  and  for 
her  a  sleepless  night  followed  upon  it.  Not 
until  long  pant  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  did 
she  lose  consciousness,  and  then  the  thoughts  of 


LYING   PROPHETS  151 

the  day  broke  loose  again  in  visions,  taking  upon 
themselves  fantastic  shapes  and  moving  amid 
dream  scenery  of  strange  splendor.  Now  it  was 
her  turn  to  conjure  brain  pictures  out  of  fevered 
thoughts,  and  she  woke  at  last  with  a  start  in 
the  dawn,  to  see  a  faint  light  painting  the  square 
of  her  bedroom  window.  Looking  out,  she 
found  the  world  dimly  visible,  a  darker  shadow 
through  the  gloom  where  the  fishing-boats  were 
gathering  in  the  bay,  the  lighthouse  lamp  still 
shining,  stars  twinkling  overhead,  absolute 
silence  everywhere,  and  a  cold  bite  about  the 
air.  The  girl  went  back  to  bed  again,  but  slept 
no  more  and  anon  arose,  dressed,  set  about 
morning  duties,  and,  much  to  Mrs.  Tregenza's 
astonishment,  had  the  fire  burning  and  break- 
fast ready  by  the  time  her  stepmother  appeared. 

"Aw  jimmery!"  Thomasin  exclaimed,  as 
Joan  came  in  from  the  outhouse  to  find  her 
warming  cold  hands  at  the  fire,  "I  couldn't 
b'lieve  my  eyes  at  first  an'  thot  the  piskey  men 
had  come  to  do  us  a  turn  spite  o'  what  faither 
sez.  You've  turned  over  a  leaf  seemin'ly. 
Workin'  out  o'  core  be  a  new  game  for  you." 

"I  couldn'  sleep  for  thinkin'  'bout — 'bout  the 
pig  an'  wan  thing  an'  'nother." 

"He's  pork  now,  or  nearly.  You  heard 
butcher  promise  me  some  nattlins,  dedn'  'e? 
You'd  best  walk  up  to  Paul  bimebye  an'  fetch 
'em.  'Tis  easier  to  call  to  mind  other  folk's 
promises  than  our  awn.  He  said  the  same  last 
pig-killin'  an'  it  corned  to  nort." 

Joan  escaped  soon  after  breakfast  and  set  off 


152  LYING   PROPHETS 

eagerly  enough.  She  took  a  basket  with  her 
and  designed  to  call  at  Paul  on  the  way  home 
again.  Moreover,  she  chose  a  longer  route  to 
Gorse  Point  than  that  through  Mousehole,  for 
her  very  regular  habits  of  late  had  caused  some 
comment  in  that  village,  and  more  than  one 
acquaintance  had  asked  her,  half  in  jest,  half  in 
earnest,  who  it  was  she  went  to  see  up  Mouse- 
hole  hill.  This  had  frightened  Joan  twice 
already,  and  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  she  took 
the  longer  route  above  Paul  Church-town.  It 
brought  her  over  fields  near  the  cow-byre  where 
Barron  spent  much  of  his  time  and  kept  his 
picture;  and  when  she  saw  her  footpath  must 
pass  the  door  of  the  little  house,  a  flutter  quick- 
ened her  pulses  and  she  branched  away  over  the 
field  and  proceeded  to  the  cliffs  through  a  gap  in 
the  hedge  some  distance  from  the  byre. 

But  as  Joan  came  out  upon  the  sward  through 
the  furzes  her  heart  sank  in  sight  of  loneliness. 
She  was  not  early  to-day,  but  she  had  come  ear- 
lier than  "Mister  Jan."  The  gray  figure  was 
invisible.  There  were  the  marks  on  the  turf 
where  his  easel  and  camp-stool  stood ;  there  was 
the  spot  his  feet  were  wont  to  press,  and  her 
own  standing-point  against  the  glimmering 
gorse;  but  that  was  all.  She  knew  of  no  rea- 
son for  his  delay.  The  weather  was  splendid, 
the  day  was  warm,  and  he  had  never  been  so 
late  before  within  her  recollection.  Joan,  much 
wondering,  sat  down  to  wait  with  her  eyes  upon 
the  sea,  her  ears  alert  for  the  first  footstep,  and 
her  mind  listening  also.  Time  passed,  and  in- 


LYING   PROPHETS  153 

definite  uneasiness  grew  into  a  fear;  then  that 
expanded  and  multiplied  as  her  mind  approached 
the  problem  of  "Mister  Jan's"  non-appearance 
from  a  dozen  different  standpoints.  Hope  de- 
clared some  private  concern  had  kept  him  and 
he  would  not  be  long  in  coming ;  fear  inquired 
what  unforeseen  incident  was  likely  to  have 
risen  since  yesterday — asked  the  question  and 
answered  it  a  dozen  ways.  The  girl  waited, 
walked  here  and  there,  scanned  the  footpath  and 
the  road,  returned,  sat  down  in  patience,  ate  a 
cake  she  had  brought,  and  so  whiled  the  long 
minutes  away.  The  fears  grew  as  hour  and 
half-hour  passed — fears  for  him,  not  herself. 
The  crowning  despair  did  not  touch  her  mind 
till  later,  and  her  first  sorrow  was  a  simple  terror 
that  harm  had  fallen  upon  the  man.  He  had  told 
her  that  he  valued  life  but  little,  that  at  best  no 
great  length  of  days  awaited  him ;  and  now  she 
thought  that  wandering  about  the  cliffs  by  night 
he  might  have  met  the  death  he  did  not  fear. 
Then  she  remembered  he  was  but  a  sick  man 
always,  with  frail  breathing  parts;  and  her 
thoughts  turned  to  the  shed,  and  she  pictured 
him  lying  ill  there,  unable  to  communicate  with 
friends,  perhaps  waiting  and  praying  long  hours 
for  her  footfall  as  she  had  been  waiting  and 
praying  for  his.  Upon  this  most  plausible  pos- 
sibility striking  Joan,  her  heart  beat  at  her 
breast  and  her  cheeks  grew  white.  She  rose 
from  her  seat  upon  the  cliff,  turned  her  face  to 
the  cow-byre  and  made  a  few  quick  steps  in  that 
direction.  Then  a  vague  flutter  of  sense,  as  of 


154  LYING   PROPHETS 

warning  where  no  danger  is  visible,  slowed  her 
speed  for  a  moment ;  but  her  heart  was  strung 
to  action,  and  the  strange  new  voice  did  not 
sound  like  Nature's,  so  she  put  it  aside  and  let 
it  drown  into  silence  before  the  clamor  of  fear 
for  "Mister  Jan's"  well-being.  Indeed,  that 
dim  premonitory  whisper  excited  a  moment's 
anger  in  the  girl  that  any  distrust  could  shadow 
her  love  for  such  a  one  at  such  a  time.  She 
hated  herself,  held  the  thought  a  sin  of  her  own 
commission,  and  sped  onward  until  she  stood 
upon  the  northern  side  of  the  byre  in  a  shadow 
cast  from  it  by  the  sun.  The  place  was  padv 
locked,  and  at  that  sight  Joan's  spirits,  though 
they  rose  in  one  direction,  yet  fell  in  another. 
One  fear  vanished,  a  second  loomed  the  larger; 
for  the  padlock,  while  it  indicated  that  the  artist 
had  left  his  lonely  habitation  for  the  time,  did 
not  explain  his  absence  now  or  dispel  the  possi- 
bilities of  an  accident  or  disaster.  The  tar- 
pitched  double  door  of  the  shed  was  fast  and 
offered  no  peep-hole;  but  Joan  went  round  to 
the  south  side,  where  an  aperture  appeared  and 
where  a  little  glass  window  had  taken  the  place 
of  the  wooden  shutters.  Sunshine  lighted  the 
shed  inside;  she  could  see  every  detail  of  the 
chamber,  and  she  photographed  it  on  her  mind 
with  a  quick  glance.  A  big  easel  with  the  life- 
size  picture  of  herself  upon  it  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  shed,  and  a  smaller  easel  appeared  hard 
by.  The  artist's  palettes,  brushes  and  colors 
littered  a  bench,  and  bottles  and  tumblers  were 
scattered  among  them.  Two  pipes  which  she 


LYING   PROPHETS  155 

had  seen  in  his  mouth  lay  together  upon  a  box 
on  the  floor,  and  beside  them  stood  a  tin  of 
tobacco  wrapped  in  yellow  paper.  A  white  um- 
brella and  some  sticks  stood  in  one  corner,  and 
another  she  saw  was  filled  by  some  railway 
rugs  spread  over  dried  bracken.  Two  coats 
hung  on  nails  in  the  wall,  and  above  one  was 
suspended  a  Panama  hat  which  Barron  often 
wore  when  painting.  Something  moved  sud- 
denly, and,  looking  upon  the  stone  floor,  she 
saw  a  rat-trap  with  a  live  rat  in  it.  The  beast 
was  running  as  far  as  it  could  this  way  and 
that,  poking  its  nose  up  and  trying  the  roof  of 
its  prison.  She  noticed  its  snout  was  raw  from 
thrusting  between  the  wire,  and  she  wished  she 
could  get  in  to  kill  it.  She  did  not  know  that  it 
was  a  mother  rat  with  young  ones  outside 
squeaking  faintly  in  the  stack  of  mangel- 
wurzels;  she  did  not  know,  as  it  hopped  round 
and  round,  that  its  beady  eyes  were  glittering 
with  a  great  agony,  and  that  the  Mother  of  all 
was  powerless  to  break  down  a  mere  wire  or 
two  and  save  it. 

Presently,  worn  and  weary,  Joan  trudged 
home  again,  with  no  very  happy  mind.  She 
found  food  for  comfort  in  one  reflection  alone : 
the  artist  had  made  no  special  appointment  for 
that  day,  and  it  might  be  that  business  or  an 
engagement  at  Newlyn,  Penzance  or  elsewhere 
was  occupying  his  time.  She  felt  it  must  be  so, 
and  tried  hard  to  convince  herself  that  he  would 
surely  be  at  the  usual  spot  upon  the  morrow. 

So    she   walked  home  unhappy;    and    time, 


156  LYING    PROPHETS 

which  had  dragged  yesterday,  to-day  stood  still. 
Before  night  she  had  lived  an  age ;  the  hours  of 
darkness  were  endless,  but  her  father's  return 
furnished  excuse  for  another  morning  of  early 
rising;  and  when  Gray  Michael  and  Tom  had 
eaten,  donned  clean  raiment  and  returned  to  the 
sea,  Joan,  having  seen  them  to  the  pierhead, 
did  not  go  home,  but  hastened  straight  away 
for  Goree  Point,  and  arrived  there  earlier  than 
ever  she  had  done  before.  There  was  something 
soothing  to  her  troubled  mind  in  being  upon 
the  spot  sacred  to  him.  Though  he  was  not 
present,  she  seemed  closer  far  to  him  on  Gorse 
Point  than  anywhere  else.  His  foot  had  marked 
the  turf  there;  his  eye  had  mirrored  the  furzes 
a  hundred  times;  she  knew  just  where  his 
shadow  had  fallen  as  he  stood  painting,  and  the 
spot  upon  which  he  was  wont  to  sit  by  the  cliff- 
edge  when  came  the  time  for  rest.  Beside  this 
holy  place  she  now  seated  herself  and  waited 
with  hope  higher  in  the  splendor  of  morning; 
for  sorrows,  fears  and  ills  are  always  blackest 
when  the  sun  has  set,  and  every  man  or  woman 
can  better  face  trouble  on  opening  their  eyes  in 
a  sunny  dawn  than  after  midnight  has  struck, 
a  sad  day  left  them  weakened,  and  nothing 
wakes  hi  the  world  but  Care  and  themselves. 
The  morning  wore  away,  and  the  old  frurs 
returned  with  greater  force  to  chill  her  soul. 
The  sun  was  burnishing  the  sea,  and  she 
watched  Mousehole  luggers  putting  out  and 
dancing  away  through  the  gold.  Under  the 
cliffs  the  gulls  wheeled  with  sad  cries  and  the 


LYING   PROPHETS  157 

long-necked  cormorants  hastened  backward  and 
forward,  now  flying  fast  and  low  over  the  water, 
now  fishing  here  and  there  in  couples.  She  saw 
them  rear  in  the  water  as  they  dived,  then  go 
down  head  first,  leaving  a  rippling  circle  which 
widened  out  and  vanished  long  before  the  fishers 
bobbed  up  again  twenty  yards  further  on.  Time 
after  time  she  watched  them,  speculating 
vaguely  after  each  disappearance  as  to  how  long 
the  bird  would  remain  out  of  sight.  Then  she 
turned  her  face  to  the  land,  weary  of  waiting, 
weary  of  the  bright  sea  and  sky,  and  the  music 
of  the  gulls,  and  of  life.  She  sat  down  again 
presently,  and  put  her  hand  over  her  face  and 
struggled  with  her  thoughts.  Manifold  fears 
compassed  her  mind  about,  but  one,  not  felt  till 
then,  rose  now,  a  giant  above  the  rest.  Yester- 
day she  had  been  all  alarm  for  "Mister  Jan"; 
to-day  there  came  terror  for  herself.  Something 
said  "He  has  gone,  he  has  left  you."  Her 
brain,  without  any  warning,  framed  the  words 
and  spoke  them  to  her.  It  was  as  though  a 
stranger  had  brought  the  news,  and  she  rose  up 
white  and  stricken  at  this  fatal  explanation  of 
the  artist's  continued  absence.  She  put  the 
thought  from  her  as  she  had  put  another,  but 
it  returned  with  pertinacity,  and  each  time 
larger  than  before,  until  the  fear  filled  all  her 
mind  and  made  her  wild  and  desperate,  under 
the  conviction  of  a  sudden,  awful  life-quake 
launched  against  her  existence  to  shatter  all 
her  new  joy  and  dash  the  brimming  cup  of  love 
from  her  lips. 


158  LYING    PROPHETS 

Hours  passed,  and  she  grew  somewhat  faint 
and  hollow  every  way — in  head  and  heart  and 
stomach.  Her  eyes  ached,  her  brains  were  worn 
out  with  thinking;  she  felt  old,  and  her  body 
was  heavy  and  energy  dead.  The  world 
changed,  too.  The  gorse  looked  strange  as  the 
sun  went  round,  the  lark  sang  no  more,  the 
wind  blew  coldly,  and  the  sea's  gold  was  dark- 
ened by  a  rack  of  flying  clouds  whose  shadows 
fell  purple  and  gray  upon  the  waters.  He  had 
gone;  he  had  left  her;  perhaps  she  would  never 
see  him  or  hear  of  him  again.  Then  the  place  grew 
hateful  to  her  and  terrible  as  a  grave.  She 
dragged  herself  away,  dizzy,  weary,  wretched; 
and  not  until  half  way  home  again  did  she  find 
power  to  steady  her  mind  and  control  thought. 
Then  the  old  alarm  returned— that  first  fear 
which  had  pictured  him  dead,  perhaps  even  now 
rolling  over  and  over  under  the  precipices,  or 
hid  forever  in  the  cranny  of  some  dark  cavern 
at  the  root  of  the  cliffs,  where  high  tides  spouted 
and  thundered  and  battered  the  flesh  off  his 
bones  against  granite.  She  suffered  terribly  in 
mind  upon  that  homeward  journey.  Her  own 
light  and  darkness  mattered  nothing  now,  and 
her  personal  and  selfish  fears  had  vanished  be- 
fore she  reached  Newlyn.  She  was  thinking 
how  she  should  raise  an  alarm,  how  she  should 
tell  his  friends,  who  possibly  imagined  "Mister 
Jan'*  safe  and  comfortable  in  his  cow-byre. 
But  who  were  his  friends  and  how  should  she 
approach  them  without  such  a  step  becoming 
known  and  getting  talked  about?  Her  misery 


LYING   PROPHETS  159 

was  stamped  on  her  face  when  she  at  last  re- 
turned to  the  white  cottage  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  of  that  day,  and  Mrs.  Tregenza 
saw  it  there. 

"God  save  us!  wheer  you  bin  to,  an'  what 
you  bin  'bout?  You'm  so  pasty  an'  round-eyed 
as  if  you'd  bin  piskey-led  somewheers.  An'  me 
worn  to  death  wi'  work.  An'  wheer'm  the 
nattlins  an'  the  basket?" 

Joan  had  quite  forgotten  her  commission  and 
left  the  basket  on  Gorse  Point. 

"I'll  gaw  back  bimebye,"  she  said.  "I  bin 
walkin'  'long  the  cliffs  in  the  sun  an'  forgot  the 
time.  Gimme  somethin'  fate,  mother;  I  be 
hungry  an'  fainty  like  wi'  gwaine  tu  far.  I 
could  hardly  fetch  home." 

"You'm  a  queer  twoad,"  said  Thomasin,  "an' 
I  doan't  knaw  what's  come  over  'e  of  late  days. 
'Pears  to  me  you'm  hidin'  summat;  an'  if  I  thot 
that,  I'd  mighty  quick  get  faither  to  find  out 
what  'twas,  I  can  tell  'e." 

Then  she  went  off,  and  brought  some  cold 
potatoes  and  dripping,  with  bread  and  salt,  and 
a  cup  of  milk. 


180  LYING    PROPHETS 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

LESSONS    LEARNED 

THE  lesson  which  he  had  set  for  Joan  Tre- 
genza's  learning  taught  John  Barren  something 
also.  Eight-and -forty  hours  he  stayed  in  New- 
lyn,  and  was  astounded  to  find  during  that  period 
what  grip  this  girl  had  got  upon  his  mind,  how 
she  had  dragged  him  out  of  himself.  His  first 
thought  was  to  escape  all  physical  excitement 
and  emotion  by  abandoning  his  picture  almost 
upon  the  moment  of  its  completion  and  aban- 
doning his  model  too;  but  various  considerations 
cried  out  against  such  a  course.  To  go  was  to 
escape  no  difficulty,  but  to  fly  from  the  spoils  of 
victory.  The  fruit  only  wanted  plucking,  and, 
through  pleasure,  he  believed  that  he  would  pro- 
ceed to  speedy,  easy  and  triumphant  completion 
of  his  picture.  No  lasting  compunction  colored 
the  tenor  of  his  thoughts.  Once,  indeed,  upon 
the  day  when  he  returned  to  Qorse  Point  and 
saw  Joan  again,  some  shadow  of  regret  for  her 
swept  through  his  brain ;  but  that  and  the  issue 
of  it  will  be  detailed  in  their  place. 

Time  went  heavily  for  him  away  from  Joan. 
He  roamed  listlessly  here  and  there  and  watched 
the  weather-glass  uneasily;  for  this  abstention 


LYING   PROPHETS  161 

from  work  was  a  deliberate  challenge  to  Provi- 
dence to  change  sunshine  for  rain  and  high  tem- 
perature for  low.  Upon  the  third  day  therefore 
he  returned  at  early  morning  to  his  picture  in 
the  shed.  The  greater  part  was  finished,  and 
the  masses  of  gorse  stood  out  strong,  solid  and 
complete  with  the  slender  brown  figure  before 
them.  The  face  of  it  was  very  sweet,  but  to 
Barren  it  seemed  as  the  face  of  a  ghost,  with 
no  hot  blood  in  its  veins,  no  live  interests  in  its 
eyes. 

"  'Tis  the  countenance  of  a  nun,"  he  said 
sneeringly  to  himself.  "No  fire,  no  love,  no 
story — a  sweet  virgin  page  of  life,  innocent  of 
history  or  of  interest  as  a  new-blown  lily."  The 
problem  was  difficult,  and  be  had  now  quite  con- 
vinced himself  that  solution  depended  on  one 
course  alone.  "And  why  not?"  he  asked  him- 
self. "Why,  when  pleasures  are  offered,  shall 
I  refuse  them?  God  knows  Nature  is  chary 
enough  with  her  delights.  She  has  sowed  death 
in  me,  here  in  my  lungs.  I  shall  bleed  away 
my  life  some  day  or  die  strangled,  unless  I  an- 
ticipate the  climax  and  choose  another  exit. 
Why  not  take  what  she  throws  to  me  in  the 
meantime?" 

He  walked  down  to  the  Point,  set  up  his  easel 
and  waited,  feeling  that  Joan  had  certainly  made 
two  pilgrimages  since  his  last  visit  and  little 
doubting  that  she  would  come  a  third  time. 
Presently  indeed  she  did,  scarcely  daring  to 
raise  her  eyes,  but  flushing  with  great  waves 
of  joy  when  she  saw  him,  and  crying  "Mister 


162  LYING    PROPHETS 

Jan!"  in  a  triumphant  ripple  of  music  from  a 
full  heart.  Then  the  artist  rose  very  boldly  and 
put  his  arms  round  her  and  looked  into  her  face, 
while  she  nestled  close  to  him  and  shut  her  eyes 
with  a  sigh  of  sheer  content  and  thankfulness. 
She  had  learned  her  lesson  thoroughly  enough ; 
she  felt  she  could  not  live  without  him  now,  and 
when  he  kissed  her  she  did  not  start  from  the 
caress,  but  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  into  his 
face  with  great  yearning  love. 

"Oh,  thank  the  good  God  you'm  corned  back 
agin  to  me !  To  think  it  be  awnly  two  lil  days ! 
An'  the  time  have  seemed  a  hunderd  years.  I 
thot  'e  was  lost  or  dead  or  killed,  an'  I  seed  'e, 
when  I  slept,  a  tossin'  over  down  in  the  zawns  * 
where  the  sea  roars  an'  makes  the  world  shake. 
Oh,  Mister  Jan,  an'  I  woke  screamin',  an'  mother 
corned  up,  an'  I  near  spoke  your  name,  but  not 
quite." 

"You  need  not  have  feared  for  me,  Joan, 
though  I  have  been  very  miserable  too,  my  lit- 
tle sweetheart;  I  have  indeed.  I  was  over- 
worked and  worried  and  wretched,  so  I  stopped 
in  Newlyn,  but  being  away  from  you  had  only 
taught  me  I  cannot  exist  away  from  you.  The 
time  was  long  and  dreary,  and  it  would  have 
been  still  worse  had  I  known  that  you  were  un- 
happy." 

"  'Tweer  wisht  days  for  me,  Mister  Jan.  I 
be  such  a  poor  lass  in  brains,  an'  I  could  awnly 
think  of  trouble  'cause  I  loved  'e  so  true.  'Tedn* 

*  Zawna — Sea  caves. 


LYING   PROPHETS  lt)3 

like  the  same  plaace  when  you'm  away.  Then 
I  thot  you'd  gone  right  back  to  Lunnon,  an'  I 
judged  my  heart  'ud  break  for  'e,  I  did." 

"Poor  little  blue-eyed  woman!  Could  you 
really  think  I  was  such  a  brute?" 

"  'Twas  awnly  wan  thot  among  many.  I 
never  thot  so  much  afore  in  my  life.  An'  I 
looked  'bout  tu;  an'  I  went  up  to  the  lil  byre, 
where  your  things  was,  an'  peeped  in  en.  But 
I  seed  naught  of  'e,  awnly  a  gashly  auld  rat  in 
a  trap.  But  'e  won't  gaw  aways  like  that  ag'in, 
will  'e?" 

"No,  no.     It  was  too  bad." 

"Coorse  I  knawed  that  if  all  was  well  with 
'e,  you'd  a  done  the  right  thing,  but  it  'peared 
as  if  the  right  thing  couldn'  be  to  leave  me,  Mis- 
ter Jan — not  now,  now  you  be  my  world  like ; 
'cause  theer  edn'  nothin'  or  nobody  else  in  the 
world  but  you  for  me.  Tis  wicked,  but  t'others 
be  all  faded  away;  an'  faither's  nort,  an'  Joe's 
nort,  alongside  o'  you." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  began  to  paint.  Joan's 
face  was  far  short  of  looking  its  best ;  there  were 
dark  shadows  under  her  eyes  and  less  color  than 
usual  brightened  her  cheeks.  He  tried  to  work, 
but  circumstances  and  his  own  feelings  were 
alike  against  him.  He  was  restless  and  lacked 
patience,  nor  could  his  eye  see  color  aright.  In 
half  an  hour  he  had  spoiled  not  a  little  of  what 
was  already  done.  Then  he  took  a  palette- 
knife,  made  a  clean  sweep  of  much  previous 
labor  and  began  again.  But  the  music  of  her 
happy  voice  was  in  his  blood.  The  child  had 


164  LYING    PROPHETS 

come  out  of  the  valley  of  sorrow  and  she  was 
boisterously  happy  and  her  laughter  made  him 
wild.  Mists  gathered  in  his  eyes  and  his  breath 
caught  now  and  again.  Passion  fairly  gripped 
him  by  the  throat  till  even  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice  was  strange  to  him  and  he  felt  his  knees 
shake.  He  put  down  his  brushes,  turned  from 
the  picture,  and  went  to  the  cliff-edge,  there 
flinging  himself  down  upon  the  grass. 

"I  cannot  paint  to-day,  Joan;  I'm  too  over- 
joyed at  getting  you  back  to  me.  My  hand  is 
not  steady,  and  my  Joan  of  paint  and  canvas 
seems  worse  and  feebler  than  ever  beside  your 
flesh  and  blood.  You  don't  know — you  cannot 
guess  how  I  have  missed  you." 

"Iss  fay,  but  I  can,  Mister  Jan,  if  you  felt 
same  as  what  I  done.  'Tweer  cruel,  cruel. 
But  then  you've  got  a  many  things  an'  folks 
to  611  up  your  time  along  with;  I  abbun  got 
nothin'  now  but  you." 

"I  expect  Joe  often  thinks  about  you." 

"I  dunnaw.  'Tis  awful  wicked,  but  Joe  he 
gone  clean  out  my  mind  now.  I  thot  I  loved 
en,  but  I  was  a  cheel  then  an'  I  didn't  'sackly 
knaw  what  love  was;  now  I  do.  'Twadden 
what  I  felt  for  Joe  Noy  'tall ;  'tis  what  I  feels 
for  you,  Mister  Jan." 

"Ah,  I  like  to  hear  you  say  that.  Nature  has 
brought  you  to  me,  Joan,  my  little  jewel;  and 
she  has  brought  Jan  to  you.  You  could  not  un- 
derstand that  last  time  I  told  you ;  now  you  can 
and  you  do.  Wo  belong  to  each  other — you  and 
I— and  to  nobody  else." 


LYING   PROPHETS  165 

"I'd  be  well  content  to  belong  to  'e,  Mister 
Jan.  You'm  my  good  fairy,  I  reckon.  If  I 
could  work  for  'e  allus  an'  see  'e  an'  'ear  'e 
every  day,  I  shouldn'  want  nothin'  better'n 
that." 

Then  it  was  that  the  shade  of  a  compunction 
and  the  shadow  of  a  regret  touched  John  Bar- 
ron ;  and  it  cooled  his  hot  blood  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment, and  he  swore  to  himself  he  would  try  to 
paint  her  again  as  she  was.  He  would  fight 
Nature  for  once  and  try  if  pure  intellect  was 
strong  enough  to  get  the  face  he  wanted  on  to 
the  canvas  without  the  gratification  of  his  flesh 
and  blood.  In  which  determination  glimmered 
something  almost  approaching  to  self-sacrifice  in 
such  a  man.  He  did  not  answer  Joan's  last  re- 
mark, but  rose  and  went  to  his  picture,  and  she, 
thinking  herself  snubbed  by  his  silence  after  her 
avowal,  grew  hot  and  uncomfortable. 

"The  weather  is  going  to  change,  sweetheart, " 
he  said,  allowing  himself  the  luxury  of  affection- 
ate words  in  the  moment  of  his  half-hearted 
struggle ;  "the  weather-glass  creeps  back  slowly. 
We  must  not  waste  time.  Come,  Joan;  we  are 
the  children  of  Nature,  but  the  slaves  of  Art. 
Let  me  try  again." 

But  she,  who  had  spoken  in  all  innocence  and 
with  a  child's  love,  was  pained  that  he  should 
have  taken  no  note  of  her  speech.  She  was  al- 
most angry  that  he  had  power  to  conjure  such 
words  to  her  lips ;  and  yet  the  anger  vanished 
from  her  mind  quickly  enough  and  her  thoughts 
were  all  happy  as  she  resumed  her  pose  for  him. 


166  LYING    PROPHETS 

The  past  few  days  had  vastly  deepened  and 
widened  her  mental  horizon;  and  now  Barren 
for  the  first  time  saw  something  of  what  he 
wanted  in  her  eyes  as  she  gazed  away  over  tho 
sea  and  did  not  look  at  him  as  usual.  There, 
sure  enough,  was  the  soul  that  he  knew  slept 
somewhere,  but  had  never  seen  until  then.  And 
the  sight  of  it  came  as  a  shock  and  swept  away 
his  sophistries  and  ugly- woven  ideas.  Inclina- 
tion had  told  him  that  Nature,  through  one 
channel  only,  would  hring  the  mystery  of  hid- 
den thought  to  Joan's  blue  eyes,  and  he  had  felt 
well  satisfied  to  believe  it  was  so;  but  now  even 
the  plea  of  Art  could  not  excuse  the  thing  which 
had  grown  within  him  of  late,  for  experiences 
other  than  those  he  dreamed  of  had  glorified  the 
frank  blue  eyes  and  brought  mind  into  them. 
Now  it  only  remained  for  him  to  paint  them  if 
he  could.  Not  wholly  untroubled,  but  never 
much  more  beautiful  than  that  morning,  Joan 
gazed  out  upon  the  remote  sea.  Then  the 
thoughtful  mood  passed,  and  she  laughed  and 
babbled  again,  and  the  new-born  beauty  de- 
parted from  her  eyes  for  a  season,  and  the  warm 
blood  raced  through  her  veins,  and  she  was  all 
happiness.  Meanwhile  nothing  came  of  his 
painting  and  he  was  not  sorry  when  she  ended 
the  ordeal. 

"The  bwoats  be  comin'  back  home  along, 
Mister  Jan.  I  doan't  mark  faither's  yet,  but 
when  'tis  wance  in  sight  he'll  be  to  Newlyn 
sooner'n  me.  So  I'd  best  be  gwaine,  though 
it  edn'  more  than  noon,  I  s'pose.  An'  my 


LYING   PROPHETS  167 

heart's  a  tidy  sight  lighter  now  than  'tweer 
issterday  indeed." 

"I'm  almost  afraid  to  let  you  go,  Joan." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously,  waiting  for  his 
bidding,  but  he  seemed  moody,  and  said  no 
more. 

"When  be  you  comin'  next?" 

"To-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow, 
my  pearl  above  price.  It  is  so  hard,  so  very 
hard,"  he  answered.  "Fine  or  wet  I  shall  be 
here  to-morrow,  for  I  am  not  going  back  to 
Newlyn  again  till  my  work  is  done.  Three 
more  sittings,  Joan,  if  you  have  enough  pa- 
tience— " 

"In  coorse,  Mister  Jan." 

She  did  not  explain  to  him  what  difficulties 
daily  grew  in  the  way  of  her  coming,  how 
rumor  was  alive,  and  how  her  stepmother  had 
threatened  more  than  once  to  tell  Gray  Michael 
that  his  wayward  daughter  was  growing  a  gad- 
about. Joan  had  explained  away  her  roaming 
with  a  variety  of  more  or  less  ingenious  lies, 
and  she  always  found  her  brain  startlingly  fer- 
tile where  the  artist  and  his  picture  were  con- 
cerned. She  felt  little  doubt  that  three  more 
visits  to  Gorse  Point  might  be  achieved — ay, 
and  thirty  more  if  necessary.  But  afterward? 
What  would  follow  the  painting  of  the  picture? 
She  asked  herself  the  question  as  he  kissed  her, 
with  a  kiss  that  was  almost  rough,  while  he  bid 
her  go  quickly ;  and  the  former  reply  to  every 
doubt  made  answer.  Her  fears  fled  as  usual 
before  the  invigorating  spectacle  of  this  sterling, 


168  LYING    PROPHETS 

truth-loving  man.  With  him  all  the  future  re- 
mained and  with  him  only.  Hers  was  the  pleas- 
ant, passive  task  of  obedience  to  one  utterly 
trusted  and  passionately  loved.  Her  fate  lay 
hidden  in  his  heart,  as  the  fate  of  the  clay  lies 
hid  in  the  brain  of  the  potter. 

And  so  home  she  went,  walking  in  a  sunshine 
of  her  own  thoughts.  The  clouds  were  gone; 
they  massed  gloomily  on  the  horizon  of  the  past ; 
but  looking  forward,  she  saw  no  more  of  them. 
All  time  to  come  was  at  the  disposition  of  the 
wisest  man  she  had  ever  met.  She  did  not 
know  or  guess  at  the  battle  which  this  same 
wise  man  had  fought  and  lost  under  her  eyes; 
she  gathered  nothing  of  the  truth  from  his 
gloom,  his  silence,  his  changed  voice,  his  sud- 
den farewell.  She  did  not  know  passion  when 
she  saw  it;  and  the  ugly  visible  signs  thereof 
told  no  tale  to  her. 


LYING   PROPHETS  169 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

STORM 

THAT  night  the  change  came  and  the  wind 
veered  first  to  the  south,  then  to  the  southwest. 
By  morning,  gray  clouds  hid  the  sky  and  hourly 
grew  darker  and  lower.  As  yet  no  rain  fell, 
but  the  world  had  altered,  and  every  light- 
value,  from  an  artist's  standpoint,  was  modified. 

John  Barron  sat  by  his  stove  in  the  byre,  made 
himself  a  cup  of  black  coffee,  and  presently, 
wrapped  in  a  big  mackintosh,  walked  out  to 
Gorse  Point.  His  picture  he  left,  of  course,  at 
the  shed,  for  painting  was  out  of  the  question. 

Nature,  who  had  been  smiling  so  pleasantly 
in  sunshine  these  many  days,  now  awoke  in  a 
grim  gray  mood.  The  sea  ran  high,  its  white 
foam-caps  and  ridges  fretting  the  rolling  volume 
of  it;  the  luggers  fought  their  way  out  with 
buried  noses  and  laboring  hulls ;  rain  still  held 
off,  but  it  was  coming  quickly,  and  the  furze 
and  the  young  grasses  panted  for  it  on  Gorse 
Point.  Below  the  cliffs  a  wild  spirit  inhabited 
the  sea  fowl,  and  they  screamed  and  wheeled  in 
many  an  aerial  circle,  now  sliding  with  motion- 
less outstretched  wing  upon  the  gathering  gale, 
now  beating  back  against  it,  now  dancing  in  a 


170  LYING   PROPHETS 

fleet  and  making  music  far  away  in  the  foam. 
Upon  the  beach  the  dry  sand  whipped  round  in 
little  whirls  and  eddies  where  wind-gusts  caught 
it;  the  naked  rocks  poked  shining  weed-covered 
heads  out  of  a  low  tide,  and  the  wet  white  light 
of  them  glimmered  raw  through  the  gray  tones 
of  the  atmosphere.  Now  and  then  a  little  cloud 
of  dust  would  puff  out  from  the  cliff -face  where 
the  wind  dislodged  a  dry  particle  of  stone  or 
mould ;  elsewhere  Barron  saw  the  sure-rooted 
samphire  and  tufts  of  sea-pink,  innocent  of  flow- 
ers as  yet ;  and  sometimes  little  squeaking  dabs 
of  down  might  also  be  observed  below  where  in- 
fant gulls  huddled  together  in  the  ledges  outside 
their  nests  and  gazed  upon  a  condition  of  things 
as  yet  beyond  their  experience. 

Joan  came  presently  to  find  the  artist  looking 
out  at  the  sea. 

"You  ban't  gwaine  to  paint,  I  s'pose,  'cause 
o'  this  ugly  fashion  weather?"  she  said. 

"No,  sweetheart!  All  the  gold  has  gone  out 
of  the  world,  and  there  is  nothing  left  but  lead 
and  dross.  See  how  sharp  the  green  is  under  the 
gray,  and  note  the  clearness  of  the  air.  Every- 
thing is  keen  and  hard  upon  the  eye  to-day;  the 
sky  is  full  of  rain  and  the  sea  is  a  wild  harmony 
in  gray  and  silver." 

"Iss,  the  cleeves  be  callin'  this  marnin*.  'Tis 
a  fort  o'  whisper  as  comes  to  a  body's  ear,  an'  it 
means  that  the  high  hills  knaws  the  rain  is  nigh. 
An'  they  tell  it  wan  to  t'other,  and  moans  it 
mournful  over  the  valleys  'pon  the  wind.  'The 
storm  be  comin',  the  storm  be  comin ','  they  sez. " 


LYING   PROPHETS  171 

The  south  and  west  regions  of  distance  black- 
ened as  they  sat  there  on  the  cliff,  and  upon  the 
sea  separate  heavy  gusts  of  wind  roughened  up 
the  hollows  of  the  waves.  Which  effect  seen 
from  afar  flickered  weirdly  like  a  sort  of  sub- 
marine lightning  shivering  white  through  dark 
water.  Presently  a  cloud  broke,  showing  a  bank 
of  paler  gray  behind,  and  misty  silver  arrows 
fell  in  broad  bands  of  light  upon  the  sea.  They 
sped  round,  each  upon  the  last,  like  the  spokes 
of  a  gigantic  wheel  trundling  over  the  world ; 
then  the  clouds  huddled  together  again  and  the 
gleam  of  brightness  died. 

"  You'm  wisht  this  marnin',  Mister  Jan.  You 
abbun  so  much  as  two  words  for  me.  'Tis  'cause 
you  caan't  paint  your  picksher,  I  reckon." 

He  sighed  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"Don't  think  that,  my  Joan.  Once  I  cared 
nothing  for  you,  everything  for  my  picture ;  now 
I  care  nothing  for  my  picture,  everything  for 
you.  And  the  better  I  love  you,  the  worse  I 
paint  you.  That's  funny,  isn't  it?" 

"Iss,  'tis  coorious.  But  I'm  sure  you  do  draw 
me  a  mighty  sight  finer  than  I  be.  'Tis  won- 
nerful  clever,  an'  theer  edn'  no  call  to  be  sad, 
for  no  man  else  could  a  done  better,  I  lay." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  still  held  her  hand. 
Then  there  came  a  harder  breath  of  wind  with 
a  sob  of  sound  in  it,  while  already  over  the 
distant  sea  swept  separate  gray  curtains  of 
rain. 

"It's  coming,  Joan;  the  storm.  It's  every- 
where, in  earth  and  air  and  water;  and  in  my 


172  LYING   PROPHETS 

blood.  I  am  savage  to-day,  Joan,  savage  and 
thirsty.  What  will  be  the  end  of  it?" 

He  spoke  wildly,  like  the  weather.  She  did 
not  understand,  but  she  felt  his  hand  clinch 
tightly  over  hers,  and,  looking  at  the  white  thin 
fingers  crooked  round  her  wrist,  they  brought 
to  her  mind  the  twisted  claws  of  a  dead  sea-gull 
she  remembered  to  have  found  upon  the  beach. 

"What  will  be  the  end  of  it,  Joan?  Can't  you 
answer  me?" 

"Doan't  'e,  Mister  Jan;  you'm  hurtin'  my 
hand.  I  s'pose  as  a  sou'westerly  gale  be  corn- 
in'.  Us  knaws  'em  well  enough  in  these  paarts. 
Faither  reckoned  theer  was  dirty  weather  blaw- 
in'  up  'fore  he  sailed.  He  was  away  by  daylight. 
The  gales  do  bring  trouble  to  somebody  most 
times." 

"What  will  be  the  end  of  us,  I  mean,  not  of 
the  weather?  The  rain  will  come  and  the  clouds 
will  melt,  and  we  know,  as  sure  as  God's  in 
heaven,  that  we  shall  see  sunshine  and  blue  sky 
again.  But  what  about  our  storm,  Joan;  the 
storm  of  love  that's  burst  in  my  heart  for  you — 
what  follows  that?" 

His  question  frightened  her.  She  had  asked 
herself  the  same  and  been  well  content  to  leave 
an  answer  to  him.  Here  he  was  faced  with  a 
like  problem  and  now  invited  her  to  solve  it. 

"I  dunnaw.  I  thot  such  love  never  corned  to 
no  end,  Mister  Jan.  I  thot  'tweer  good  to  wear; 
but— but  how  do  I  knaw  if  you  doan't?" 

"You  trust  me,  Joan?" 

"Why,  who  should  I  trust,  if  'tweern't  you? 


LYING   PROPHETS  173 

I  never  knawed  any  person  else  as  set  such  store 
'pon  the  truth.  I  doan't  s'pose  the  cherrybims 
in  heaven  loves  it  more'n  what  you  do." 

"Here's  the  rain  on  the  back  of  the  wind,"  he 
said. 

A  few  heavy  drops  fell,  cold  as  ice  upon  his 
burning  face,  and  Joan  laughed  as  she  held  out 
her  hand,  on  which  a  great  splash  as  big  as  a 
shilling  had  spread. 

"That  be  wan  of  Tregagle's  tears,"  she  said, 
"an'  'tis  the  voice  of  en  as  you  can  hear  howlin' 
in  the  wind.  He's  allus  a  bawlin'  an'  squealin', 
poor  sawl,  but  you  can  awnly  hear  en  now  an' 
again  'fore  a  storm  when  the  gale  blaws  his  hol- 
lerin'  this  way." 

"Who  was  Tregagle?" 

"He  was  a  lawyer  man  wance,  an'  killed  a 
many  wives,  an'  did  a  many  shameful  deeds 
'fore  he  went  dead.  Then,  to  Bodmin  Court, 
theer  comes  a  law  case,  an'  they  wanted  Tre- 
gagle, an'  a  man  said  Tregagle  was  the  awnly 
witness,  and  another  said  he  wadden.  The  sec- 
ond man  up  an'  swore  'If  Tregagle  saw  it  done, 
then  I  wish  to  God  he  may  rise  from's  graave 
and  come  this  minute. '  Then,  sure  enough,  the 
ghost  of  Tregagle  'peared  in  the  court-house  an' 
shawed  the  man  was  a  liar.  But  they  couldn' 
lay  the  ghost  no  more  arter ;  an'  it  was  a  devil- 
ghost,  which  is  the  worstest  kind;  an'  it  stuck 
close  to  thicky  lyin'  man  an'  wouldn'  leave  en 
nohow.  But  at  last  a  white  witch  bound  the 
spirit  an'  condemned  it  to  empty  out  Dosmery 
Pool  wi>  a  crogan  wi'  a  hole  in  it.  A  crogan's 


174  LYING   PROPHETS 

a  limpet  shell,  which  you  mightn't  knaw,  Mis- 
ter Jan.  Tregagle,  he  done  that  purty  quick, 
an'  then  he  was  at  the  man  again ;  but  a  pagson 
got  the  bettermost  of  en  an'  tamed  en  wi'  Script- 
ure till  Tregagle  was  as  gentle  as  a  cheel.  Then 
they  set  en  to  work  agin  an'  bid  en  make  a  truss 
o'  sand  down  in  Gwenvor  Cove,  an*  carry  it 
'pon  his  shoulder  up  to  Cam  Olva.  Tregagle 
weer  a  braave  time  doin'  that,  I  can  'sure  'e, 
but  theer  corned  a  gert  frost  wan  winter,  an*  he 
got  water  from  the  brook  an'  poured  it  'pon  the 
truss  o'  sand,  so  it  froze  hard.  Then  he  carried 
it  up  Cam  Olva;  an'  then,  bein'  a  free  spirit 
agin,  he  flew  off  quicker'n  lightning  to  that  ly- 
in*  man  to  tear  en  to  pieces  this  time.  But  by 
good  chance,  when  Tregagle  corned  to  en,  the 
man  weer  carryin'  a  lil  baaby  in's  arms — a  HI 
cheel  as  had  never  done  a  single  wicked  act, 
bein'  tu  young;  so  Tregagle  could n*  do  no  hurt. 
An'  they  caught  en  again,  an'  passon  set  en 
'pon  another  job:  to  make  a  truss  o'  sand  in 
Whitsand  Bay  wi'out  usin'  any  fresh  water. 
But  Tregagle  caan't  never  do  that;  so  he  cries 
bitter  sometimes,  an'  howls;  an'  when  'e  howls 
you  knaw  the  storm's  a  comin'  to  scatter  the 
truss  o'  sand  he's  builded  up." 

Barron  followed  the  legend  with  interest.  Tre- 
gagle and  his  victim  and  the  charm  of  the  pure 
child  that  saved  one  from  the  other  filled  his 
thought  and  the  event  to  which  Fate  was  now 
relentlessly  dragging  him.  H«»  sirgtiod  with 
himself  a  little;  then  the  rain  came  down  and 
the  wind  l»«;i|>od  like  u  lion  over  the  edge  of  the 


LYING   PROPHETS  175 

land,  and  the  man's  blood  boiled  as  he  breathed 
ocean  air. 

"Us'll  be  wetted  proper.  I'll  run  for  it,  Mis- 
ter Jan,  an'  you'd  best  to  go  up-long  to  your  HI 
lew  house.  Wet's  bad  for  'e,  I  reckon." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  can't  let  you  go,  Joan. 
Look  over  there.  Another  flood  is  going  to 
burst,  I  think.  Follow  me  quickly,  quickly." 

The  rain  came  slanting  over  the  gorse  in  ear- 
nest, but  Joan  hesitated  and  hung  back.  Louder 
than  the  wind,  louder  than  the  cry  of  the  birds, 
than  the  howling  of  Tregagle,  than  the  calling 
of  the  cleeves,  spoke  something.  And  it  said 
"Turn,  on  the  wing  of  the  storm;  fly  before  it, 
alone.  Let  this  man  walk  in  the  teeth  of  the 
gale  if  he  will ;  but  you,  Joan  Tregenza,  follow 
the  wind  and  set  your  face  to  the  east,  where 
the  sole  brightness  now  left  in  the  sky  is  shin- 
ing." 

Sheets  of  gray  swept  over  them ;  the  world 
was  wet  in  an  instant;  a  little  mist  of  water 
splashed  up  two  inches  high  off  the  ground  ;  the 
gorse  tossed  and  swayed  its  tough  arms ;  the  sea 
and  the  struggling  craft  upon  it  vanished  like  a 
dream ;  from  the  heart  of  the  storm  cried  gulls, 
themselves  invisible. 

"Come,  Joan,  we  shall  be  drowned." 

He  had  wrapped  her  in  a  part  of  the  mackin- 
tosh, and  laughed  as  he  fastened  them  both  into 
it  and  hugged  her  close  to  himself.  But  she 
broke  away,  greatly  fearing,  yet  knowing  not 
what  she  feared. 


176  LYING    PROPHETS 

"I  reckon  I'd  best  run  down  fast.  Indeed  an* 
I  want  to  go." 

"Go?  Where?  Where  should  you  go?  Come 
to  me,  Joan;  you  shall;  you  must.  We  two, 
sweetheart — we  two  against  the  rain  and  the 
wind  and  the  world.  Come!  It  will  kill  me  to 
stand  here,  and  you  don't  want  that." 

"But—" 

"Come,  I  say.  Quicker  and  quicker!  We 
two — only  we  two.  Don't  make  me  command 
you,  my  priceless  treasure  of  a  Joan.  Come 
with  me.  You  are  mine  now  and  always. 
Quicker  and  quicker,  I  say.  God!  what  rain!" 

Still  she  hesitated  and  he  grew  angry. 

"This  is  folly,  madness.  Where  is  your  trust 
and  belief?  You  don't  trust,  nor  love,  nor — 

"Doan't  'e  say  that!  Never  say  that!  It  edn' 
true.  You'm  all  to  me,  an'  you  knaws  it  right 
well,  an'  I'll  gaw  to  the  world's  end  with  'e,  I 
will — ay,  an'  trust  'e  wi'  my  life!" 

He  moved  away  and  she  followed,  hastening 
as  he  hastened.  Unutterable  desolation  marked 
the  spot.  Life  had  vanished  save  only  where 
sheep  clustered  under  a  bank  with  their  tails 
to  the  weather,  and  long-legged  lambs  blinked 
their  yellow  eyes  and  bleated  as  the  couple 
passed.  Despite  their  haste  the  man  and  the 
girl  were  very  wet  before  reaching  the  shelter 
of  the  byre.  Rain-water  dribbled  off  his  cap  on 
to  his  hot  face  and  his  feet  were  soaking.  Joan 
was  breathless  with  haste;  her  draggled  skirts 
clung  to  her;  and  the  struggle  against  the  storm 
made  her  giddy. 


LYING   PROPHETS  177 

So  they  reached  the  place  of  shelter ;  and  the 
gale  burst  over  it  with  a  great,  crowning  yell  of 
wind  and  hurtle  of  rain.  Then  John  Barren 
opened  the  byre  door  and  Joan  Tregenza  passed 
in  before  him ;  whereupon  he  followed  and  shut 
the  door. 

A  loose  slate  clattered  upon  the  roof,  and  from 
inside  the  byre  it  sounded  like  a  hand  tapping 
high  above  the  artist's  bed  of  brown  fern — tap- 
ping some  message  which  neither  the  man  nor 
the  girl  could  read — tapping,  tapping,  tapping 
tirelessly  upon  ears  wholly  deaf  to  it. 


178  LYING   PROPHETS 


BOOK    TWO 

NATURE 


CHAPTER  ONE 

AN  INTERVAL 

FOR  a  week  the  rain  came  down  and  it  blew 
hard  from  the  west.  Then  the  weather  moder- 
ated, and  there  were  intervals  of  brightness  and 
mild,  damp  warmth  that  brought  a  green  veil 
trembling  over  the  world  like  magic.  The  elms 
broke  into  a  million  buds,  the  pear  trees  in  sunny 
corners  put  forth  snowy  flowers;  the  crimson 
knobs  of  the  apple-blossom  prepared  to  unfold. 
In  the  market  gardens  around  and  about  New- 
lyn  the  plums  were  already  setting,  the  wall- 
flowers, which  make  a  carpet  of  golden-brown 
beneath  the  fruit-trees  in  many  orchards,  were 
velvety  with  bloom;  the  raspberry  canes,  bent 
hoop-like  in  long  rows,  beautifully  brightened 
the  dark  earth  with  young  green;  and  verdure 
likewise  twinkled  even  to  the  heart  of  the 
forests,  to  the  stony  nipples  of  the  moor's  vast, 
lonely  bosom.  So  spring  came,  heralded  by  the 
thrush;  borne  upon  the  wings  of  the  western 
wind.  And  then  followed  a  brief  change  with 
more  heavy  rains  and  lower  temperature. 


LYING   PROPHETS  179 

The  furzes  on  Gorse  Point  were  a  scented 
glory  now — a  nimbus  of  gold  for  the  skull  of  the 
lofty  cliff.  Here  John  Barron  and  Joan  Tre- 
genza  had  met  but  twice  since  the  beginning  of 
the  unsettled  weather.  For  her  this  period  was 
in  a  measure  mysterious  and  strange.  Centuries 
of  experience  seemed  to  separate  her  from  the 
past,  and,  looking  backward,  infinite  spaces  of 
time  already  stretched  between  what  had  been 
and  what  was.  Now  overmuch  sorrow  mingled 
with  her  reflections,  though  a  leaven  of  it  ran 
through  all — a  sense  of  loss,  of  sacrifice,  of 
change,  which  flits,  like  the  shadow  of  a  sum- 
mer cloud,  even  through  the  soul  of  the  most 
deeply  loving  woman  who  ever  opened  her  eyes 
to  smile  upon  the  first  day- dawn  of  married  life. 
But  Joan's  sorrow  was  no  greater  than  that,  and 
little  unquiet  or  uneasiness  went  with  it.  She 
had  his  promises ;  from  him  they  could  but  be 
absolute;  and  not  a  hundred  attested  ceremonies 
had  left  her  heart  more  at  ease.  In  fact  she  be  • 
lieved  that  John  Barron  was  presently  going  to 
marry  her,  and  that  when  he  vanished  from 
Newlyn,  she,  as  the  better-loved  part  of  himself, 
would  vanish  too.  It  was  the  old,  stale  false- 
hood which  men  have  told  a  hundred  thousand 
times;  which  men  will  go  on  telling  and  women 
believing,  because  it  is  the  only  lie  which  meets 
all  requirements  of  the  case  and  answers  its  ex- 
act purpose  effectively.  Age  cannot  wither  it, 
for  experience  is  no  part  of  the  armor  of  the  de- 
ceived, and  Love  and  Trust  have  never  stopped 
to  think  since  the  world  began. 


180  LYING    PROPHETS 

As  for  the  artist,  each  day  now  saw  him  slip- 
ping more  deeply,  more  comfortably  back  into 
the  convolutions  of  his  old  impersonal  shell.  He 
had  been  dragged  out,  not  unwilling,  by  a  giant 
passion,  and  he  had  sacrificed  to  it,  sent  it  to  sleep 
again,  and  so  returned.  He  felt  infinitely  kind 
to  Joan.  A  week  after  her  visit  to  the  linhay 
he,  while  sitting  alone  there,  had  turned  her 
picture  about  on  the  easel,  withdrawn  its  face 
from  the  wall  and  studied  his  work.  And  look- 
ing, with  restored  critical  faculty  and  cold  blood, 
he  loved  the  paint  for  itself  and  deemed  it  very 
good.  The  storm  was  over,  the  transitory  light- 
nings drowned  lesser  lights  no  more,  and  that 
steady  beacon-flame  of  his  life,  which  had  been 
merged,  not  lost,  in  the  fleeting  blaze,  now 
shone  out  again,  steadfast  and  clear.  Such  a 
revulsion  of  feeling  argued  well  for  the  comple- 
tion of  his  picture,  ill  for  the  model  of  it. 

They  sat  one  day,  as  the  weather  grew  more 
settled,  beside  a  granite  bowlder,  which  studded 
the  short  turf  at  the  extremity  of  Gorse  Point, 
where  it  jutted  above  the  sea.  Joan,  with  her 
chin  upon  her  hands,  looked  out  upon  the  water ; 
Barren,  lying  on  a  railway-rug,  leaned  back  and 
smoked  his  pipe  and  studied  her  face  with  the 
old,  keen,  passionless  eagerness  of  their  earliest 
meetings. 

"When'll  'e  tell  me,  Jan  love?  When'll  'e 
tell  me  what  'e  be  gwaine  to  do?  Us  be  wan 
now — you  an'  me — but  the  lines  be  all  the  lov- 
in'est  wife  can  p'int  to  in  proof  she  be  a  wife. 
Couldn't  us  be  axed  out  in  church  purty  soon?" 


LYING   PROPHETS  181 

He  did  not  make  immediate  answer,  but  only 
longed  for  his  easel.  There,  in  her  face,  was  the 
wistful,  far-away  expression  he  had  sighed  for; 
a  measure  of  thought  had  come  to  the  little  ani- 
mal— her  brains  were  awake  and  her  blue  eyes 
had  never  looked  liked  this  before.  Joan  asked 
the  question  again,  and  Barron  answered. 

"The  same  matter  was  in  my  own  mind, 
sweetheart.  I  am  in  a  mighty  hurry  too,  be- 
lieve it.  You  are  safe  with  your  husband, 
Joan.  You  belong  to  me  now,  and  you  must 
trust  the  future  with  me.  All  that  law  de- 
mands to  make  us  man  and  wife  it  shall  have; 
and  all  religion  clamors  for  as  well,  if  that  is  a 
great  matter  to  you.  But  not  here — in  this 
Newlyn.  I  think  of  you  when  I  say  that,  Joan, 
for  it  matters  nothing  to  me." 

"Iss.  I  dunnaw  what  awful  sayin's  might 
go  abroad.  Things  is  all  contrary  to  home  as 
'tis.  Mother's  guessed  part  an'  she  tawld 
farther  I  weer  gwaine  daft  or  else  in  love  wi' 
some  pusson  else  than  Joe.  An'  faither  was 
short  an'  sharp,  an'  took  me  out  walkin',  an' 
bid  me  bide  at  home  an*  give  over  trapsin'  'bout. 
An'  'e  said  as  'ow  I  was  tokened  to  Joe  Nby 
an'  bound  by  God  A'mighty  to  wait  for  en  if 
'twas  a  score  years.  But  if  faither  had  knawed 
I  weer  never  for  Noy,  he'd  a'  said  more'n  that. 
I  ban't  'feared  o'  faither  now  I  knaws  you,  Jan, 
but  I  be  cruel  'feared  o'  bein'  cussed,  'cause 
theer's  times  when  cusses  doan't  fall  to  the 
ground  but  sticks.  'Twouldn'  be  well  for  the 
likes  o'  you  to  have  a  ill-wished,  awver-luked 


182  LYING   PROPHETS 

body  for  wife.  An'  if  faither  kuawed  'bout 
you,  then  I  lay  he'd  do  more'n  speak.  So  like's 
not  he'd  strike  me  de<ad  for't,  bein'  that  relig- 
ious. But  you  must  take  me  away,  Jan,  dear 
heart.  I'm  yourn  now  an'  you  must  go  on 
lovin'  me  allus,  'cause  theer'll  never  be  nobody 
else  to  not  now.  I've  chose  you  an'  gived  'e 
myself  an'  I  caan't  do  no  more." 

He  listened  to  her  delicious  voice,  and  shut 
out  the  crude  words  as  much  as  might  be  while 
he  marked  the  music.  He  was  thinking  that  if 
Joan  had  possessed  a  reasonable  measure  of  in- 
tellect, a  foundation  for  an  education,  he  would 
have  been  satisfied  to  keep  her  about  him  during 
that  probably  limited  number  of  years  which 
must  span  his  existence.  But  the  gulf  between 
them  was  too  wide ;  and,  as  for  the  present  posi- 
tion, he  considered  that  no  harm  had  been  done 
which  time  would  not  remedy.  Joan  was  not 
sufficiently  intelligent  to  suffer  long  or  much. 
She  would  forget  quickly.  She  was  very  young. 
Her  sailor  must  return  before  the  end  of  the 
year.  Then  he  began  to  think  of  money,  and 
then  sneered  at  himself.  But,  after  all,  it  was 
natural  that  he  should  follow  step  by  step  upon 
the  beaten  track  of  similar  events.  "Better  not 
attempt  originality,"  he  thought,  "for  the  thing 
I  have  done  is  scarce  capable  of  original  treat- 
ment. I  suppose  the  curtain  always  rings  down 
on  a  check — either  taken  or  spurned." 

"So  you  think  you  can  give  them  all  up  for 
poor  me,  Joan?  Your  home,  your  father, 
brother,  mother— all?" 


LYING   PROPHETS  183 

"I've  gived  up  a  sight  more'n  them,  Jan. 
I've  gived  'e  what's  all  to  a  maiden.  But  my 
folks  weern't  hard  to  give  up.  'Tis  long  since 
they  was  ought  to  me  now.  I  gaws  an'  comes 
from  the  cottage  an'  sez,  all  the  time,  'this 
ban't  home  no  more.  Mister  Jan's  home  be 
mine,'  I  sez  to  myself.  An'  each  time  as  I 
breaks  bread,  an'  sleeps,  an'  wakes,  an'  looks 
arter  faither's  clothes  I  feels  'tis  wan  time 
nigher  the  last.  They'll  look  back  an'  think 
what  a  snake  'twas  they  had  'bout  the  house,  I 
s'pose.  Mother'll  whine  an'  say,  'Ah!  'er  was 
a  bitter  weed  for  sartain,'  an'  faither'll  thunder 
till  the  crocks  rattle  an'  bid  none  dare  foul  the 
air  wi'  my  name  no  more.  But  I  be  wearyin' 
of  'e  wi'  my  clackin',  Jan,  dear  heart?" 

"Not  so,  Joan — never  think  that.  I  could 
listen  to  you  till  Doomsday.  Only  we  must  act 
now  and  talk  presently.  I  know  you're  tired  of 
the  picture,  and  you  were  cross  last  time  we  met 
because  I  could  speak  of  it;  but  I  must  for  a 
moment  more.  It  cries  out  to  be  finished.  A 
few  hours'  good  work  and  all's  done.  The 
weather  steadies  now  and  the  glass  is  rising,  so 
our  sittings  may  begin  in  a  day  or  two.  Let 
me  make  one  last,  grand  struggle.  Then,  if  I 
fail,  I  shall  fling  the  picture  over  this  cliff,  and 
my  palette  and  brushes  after  it.  So  we  will 
keep  our  secret  a  little  longer.  Then,  when  the 
picture  is  made  or  marred,  away  we'll  go,  and 
by  the  time  they  miss  you  from  your  old  home 
you  will  be  half  way  to  your  new  one." 

But  she  did  not  heed  the  latter  part  of  his 


1R4  LYING   PROPHETS 

remarks,  for  her  thoughts  were  occupied  with 
what  had  gone  before. 

*'  'Pears,  when  all's  said,  you'd  sooner  have 
the  picksher  Joan  than  the  real  wan.  'Tis  all 
the  picksher  an'  the  picksher  an'  the  picksher." 

This  was  not  less  than  the  truth,  but  of  course 
he  blamed  her  for  so  speaking,  and  said  her 
words  hurt  him. 

"  'Tis  this  way,"  she  said,  "I've  lamed  so 
much  since  I  kuawed  'e,  an'  I  be  like  as  if  I  was 
woke  from  a  sleep.  Things  is  all  differ'nt  now ; 
but  'tis  awnly  my  gert  love  for  'e  as  makes  me 
'feared  sometimes  'cause  life's  too  butivul  to 
last.  An'  the  picksher  frights  me  more'n  fancy, 
'cause,  seemin'ly,  theer's  two  Joans,  an'  the 
picksher  Joan's  purtier  than  me.  'Er's  me,  but 
better n  me.  'Er's  allus  bright  an'  bonny;  'er's 
never  crossed  an'  wisht;  'er  'olds  'er  tongue  an' 
doan't  talk  countrified  same  as  me.  Theer'll 
never  be  no  tears  nor  trouble  in  her  eyes;  she'll 
bring  'e  a  name,  an'  bide  purty  an' — an'  I  hates 
the  picksher  now,  so  I  do." 

Barron  listened  with  considerable  interest  to 
these  remarks.  There  was  passion  in  Joan's 
voice  as  she  concluded,  and  her  emotion  pres- 
ently found  relief  in  tears.  She  only  uttered 
thoughts  long  in  her  mind,  without  for  an  in- 
stant guessing  the  grim  truth  or  suspecting 
what  his  work  was  to  the  man;  yet,  things 
being  as  they  were,  she  felt  some  real  passing 
pain  to  find  him  devote  so  much  thought  to  it. 
Before  the  storm  his  painting  had  sunk  to  insig- 
nificance, since  then  it  began  to  grow  into  a 


LYING   PROPHETS  185 

great  matter  again ;  and  Joan  was  honestly  jeal- 
ous of  the  attention  the  artist  bestowed  upon  it 
now.  If  she  had  dared,  she  would  have  asked 
him  to  destroy  it;  but  something  told  her  he 
would  refuse.  No  fear  for  the  future  was 
mingled  with  this  emotion.  Only  his  mighty 
interest  in  the  work  annoyed  her.  It  was  a 
natural  petty  jealousy ;  and  when  John  Barron 
laughed  at  her  and  kissed  her  tears  away,  she 
laughed  too  and  felt  a  little  ashamed,  though 
none  the  less  glad  that  she  had  spoken. 

But  while  he  flung  jests  at  her  anger,  Barron 
felt  secretly  surprised  to  note  the  strides  his 
Awdrey's  mind  was  making.  Much  worth 
consideration  appeared  in  her  sudden  attack 
upon  the  picture.  She  had  evidently  been  really 
reflecting,  with  coherence  and  lucidity.  That 
astonished  him.  But  still  he  answered  with 
a  laugh. 

"Jealous,  Joan!  Jealous  of  yourself — of 
the  poor  painted  thing  which  has  risen  from  the 
contents  of  small  tubes  smeared  over  a  bit  of 
canvas!  My  funny  little  dear  delight!  Will 
you  always  amuse  me,  I  wonder?  I  hope  you 
will.  Nobody  else  can.  Why,  the  gorse  there 
will  grumble  next  and  think  I  love  my  poor, 
daubed  burlesque  of  its  gold  better  than  the 
thing  itself.  If  I  find  pleasure  in  the  picture, 
how  much  the  more  must  I  love  the  soul  of  it? 
You  see,  I'm  ambitious.  You  are  quite  the 
hardest  thing  I  ever  found  to  paint,  and  so  I  go 
on  trying  and  trying.  Hard  to  win  and  hard  to 
paint,  Joan." 


38fi  LYING    PROPHETS 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him  and  shook 
her  head. 

"Not  hard  to  win,  Jan.  Easy  enough  to  win 
to  you.  I  ne'er  seed  the  likes  o'  you  in  my 
MI  mil  world.  Not  hard  to  win  I  wasn't." 

"You  won't  refuse  me  a  few  more  sittings, 
then,  because  you  have  become  my  precious 
wife?" 

"In  coorsenot.  An*  I'm  so  sorry  I  was  cranky. 
I  'dedn'  mean  what  I  said  ezacally." 

To-day,  coming  fresh  to  his  ear  after  a  week's 
interval,  after  several  days  spent  with  cultured 
friends  and  acquaintances  in  Newly n,  Joan's 
rustic  speech  grated  more  painfully  than  usual. 
Once  he  had  found  pleasure  in  it;  but  he  was 
not  a  Cornishman  to  love  the  sound  of  those 
venerable  words  which  sprinkled  Joan's  utter- 
ances and  which  have  long  since  vanished  from 
all  vocabularies  save  those  of  the  common  peo- 
ple; and  now  her  language  began  to  get  upon 
his  nerves  and  jar  them.  He  was  tired  of  it. 
Often,  while  he  painted,  she  had  prattled  and 
he,  occupied  with  his  work,  had  heard  nothing; 
but  to-day  he  recognized  the  debt  he  owed  and 
listened  patiently  for  a  considerable  time.  Her 
deep  expectancy  irritated  him  too.  He  had  an- 
ticipated that,  however,  and  was  aware  that  her 
trust  and  confidence  in  him  were  alike  profound. 
Perhaps  a  shadow  of  fear,  distrust  or  uneasiness 
had  pleased  him  better.  He  was  snugly  back 
in  his  tub  of  impersonality  from  which  he  liked 
to  view  the  fools'  show  drift  pass.  His  last  ex- 
periment in  the  actively  objective  had  ruined  a 


LYING   PROPHETS  187 

girl  and  promised  to  produce  a  fine  picture. 
And  that  was  the  end  of  it.  No  fellow-creature 
could  ever  share  this  cynic's  barrel  with  him. 

Presently  Joan  departed  upon  her  long  tramp 
home.  She  had  gone  to  convey  a  message  to 
one  of  Thomasin  Tregenza's  friends  at  Paul. 
And  when  the  girl  left  him,  with  a  promise  to 
come  at  all  costs  upon  the  next  sunny  morning, 
Barron  began  to  think  about  money  again.  He 
found  that  the  larger  the  imaginary  figures,  the 
smaller  shadow  of  discomfort  clouded  his 
thoughts.  So  he  decided  upon  an  act  of  princely 
generosity,  as  the  result  of  which  resolve  peace 
returned  and  an  unruffled  mind.  For  the  musty 
conventionalitj7'  of  his  conclusion,  it  merely 
served  as  a  peg  upon  which  to  hang  thoughts 
not  necessary  to  set  down  here. 


188  LYING    PROPHETS 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE    PARTING 

JOAN  had  only  told  her  lover  a  part  of  what 
happened  in  her  home  when  Thomasin  broke 
her  suspicions  to  Gray  Michael.  He  had  taken 
the  matter  very  seriously  indeed,  delivered  a 
stern  homily  and  commanded  his  daughter  to 
read  the  Book  of  Ecclesiastic  us  through  thrice. 

"  'The  gad-about  is  a  vain  thing  and  a  mighty 
cause  for  stumblinV  You  mind  that,  an'  take 
better  care  hencefarrard  to  set  a  right  example 
to  other  maids  an'  not  lead  'em  wrong.  Theer 
shan't  be  no  froward  liver  under  this  roof,  Joan 
Tregenza,  an'  you,  as  be  my  awn  darter's  the 
last  I'd  count  to  find  wanderin'." 

She  lied  as  to  particulars.  She  had  no  fear  of 
her  father  now  as  a  man,  but  hard  words  always 
hurt  her,  and  superstition,  though  she  was  fast 
breaking  from  many  forms  of  it  under  Barren's 
tuition,  still  chained  her  soul  in  some  directions. 
Did  her  father  know  even  a  shadow  of  the  truth, 
some  dire  and  blasting  prediction  would  prob- 
ably result  from  it,  and  though  personally  he 
was  little  to  her  now,  as  a  mouthpiece  of  super- 
natural powers  he  might  bring  blighting  words 
upon  her;  for  he  walked  with  God.  But  Michael's 


LYING   PROPHETS  189 

God  was  Joan's  no  more.  She  had  fled  from 
that  awful  divinity  to  the  more  beautiful  Creator 
of  John  Barron.  He  was  kind  and  gentle,  and 
she  loved  to  hear  His  voice  in  the  hum  of  the 
bees  upon  the  gorse  and  see  His  face  everywhere 
in  the  fair  on-coming  of  spring.  Nature,  as  she 
understood  it  now,  chimed  with  the  things  her 
mother  had  taught  Joan.  She  found  room  for 
all  the  old,  pretty  stories  in  this  new  creed.  The 
dear  saints  fitted  in  with  it,  and  their  wonders 
and  mysteries,  and  the  comprehensive  if  vague 
knowledge  that  "God  is  Love."  She  believed 
she  understood  the  truth  about  religion  at  last ; 
and  Nature  smiled  very  sweetly  at  her  and 
shared  in  the  delight  of  the  time.  So  she  walked 
dreaming  on  toward  the  invisible  door  of  her 
fool's  paradise,  and  never  guessed  how  near  it 
was  or  what  Nature  would  look  like  from  the 
other  side. 

She  still  dwelt  at  the  little  home  on  the  cliff, 
so  unreal  and  shadowy  now;  she  built  cloud 
castles  ablaze  with  happiness;  she  found  false- 
hood not  difficult,  for  her  former  absolute  truth- 
fulness deadened  her  stepmother's  suspicion. 
Certain  lies  told  at  home  enabled  her  to  keep 
faith  with  the  artist;  and  the  weather  also  be- 
friending him,  three  more  sittings  in  speedy  suc- 
cession brought  John  Barron  to  the  end  of  his 
labors.  After  Joan's  exhibition  of  jealousy  he 
was  careful  to  say  little  about  his  work  and 
affect  no  further  interest  in  it.  He  let  her  chat- 
ter concerning  the  future,  told  her  of  his  big 
house  in  London,  and  presently  took  care  to 


190  LYING   PROPHETS 

drop  hints  from  time  to  time  that  the  habitation 
was  by  no  means  as  yet  ready  to  receive  his 
bride.  She  always  spoke  on  the  assumption 
that  when  the  picture  was  done  he  would  leave 
for  London  and  take  her  with  him.  She  already 
imagined  herself  creeping  off  to  join  him  at  the 
station,  sitting  beside  him  in  the  train,  and  then 
rolling  away,  past  Marazion,  into  the  great  un- 
familiar world  which  lay  beyond.  And  he  knew 
that  no  such  thing  would  happen.  He  intended 
that  Joan  should  become  a  pleasant  memory, 
with  the  veil  of  distance  and  time  over  it  to 
beautify  what  was  already  beautiful.  He  wanted 
to  remember  the  music  of  her  throbbing  voice, 
and  forget  the  words  it  used  to  utter.  The  liv- 
ing girl's  part  was  played  and  ended.  Their 
lives  had  crossed  at  right  angles  and  would 
never  meet  again.  "Nature  makes  a  glorious 
present  to  Art,  and  I  am  privileged  to  execute 
the  deed  of  gift,'*  thought  Barron;  "that  is  the. 
position  in  an  epigram. ' '  He  felt  very  grateful  to 
Joan.  He  knew  her  arm  must  have  ached  often 
enough,  but  whether  her  heart  would  presently 
do  so  he  hardly  felt  qualified  to  judge.  The  in- 
cidents of  that  stormy  day  might  have  been 
buried  in  time  ten  years,  so  faint  was  his  recol- 
lection of  them  now.  He  remembered  the  mat- 
ter with  no  greater  concern  than  the  image  of 
the  shivering  negresses  in  the  blue  water  at 
Tobago. 

And  so  the  picture,  called  "Joe's  Ship,"  was 
finished,  and  while  it  fell  far  short  of  what  Bar- 
ron had  hoped,  yet  he  knew  his  work  was  great 


LYING   PROPHETS  191 

and  the  best  thing  he  had  done.  A  packing 
case  for  the  canvas  was  already  ordered  and  he 
expected  it  upon  the  identical  day  that  saw  his 
farewell  to  Joan. 

Bit  by  bit  he  had  broken  to  her  that  it  was 
not  his  intention  to  take  her  with  him,  but  that 
he  must  go  to  his  house  alone  and  order  things 
in  readiness.  Then  he  would  come  back  and 
fetch  her.  And  she  had  accepted  the  position 
and  felt  wondrous  sad  at  the  first  meeting  with 
Barren  after  the  completion  of  the  picture.  It 
seemed  as  though  a  great  link  was  broken  be- 
tween them,  and  she  realized  now  what  folly  her 
dislike  of  his  work  had  been. 

"I  wish  I  could  take  you  right  away  with  me, 
Joan,  my  little  love ;  but  a  bachelor's  house  is 
a  comfortless  concern  from  a  woman's  point  of 
view.  You  will  hear  from  me  in  a  day  or  two. 
You  must  call  at  the  post-office  in  Penzance  for 
letters,  because  I  shall  not  send  them  here." 

"You'll  print  out  what  you  writes  big,  so's  I 
doan't  miss  nort,  won't  *e?" 

"I'll  make  the  meaning  as  clear  as  possible, 
Joan." 

"  'Tis  wisht  to  think  as  theer'll  be  hunderds 
o'  miles  'twixt  us.  I  doan't  know  how  I  be 
gwaine  to  live  the  days  out." 

"Only  a  fortnight,  remember." 

"Fourteen  whole  days  an'  nights." 

"Yes,  indeed.  It  seems  a  terribly  long  time. 
You  must  comfort  me,  sweetheart,  and  tell  me 
that  they  will  be  very  quickly  done  with." 

Joan  laughed  at  this  turning  of  the  tables. 


192  LYING   PROPHETS 

"I  reckon  a  man's  allus  got  a  plenty  things 
to  make  time  pass  for  en.  But  'tis  different  wi' 
a  gal." 

She  trusted  him  as  she  trusted  God  to  lift  the 
sun  out  of  the  eastern  sea  next  morning  and 
swing  it  in  its  solemn  course  over  heaven.  And 
as  there  was  no  fear  of  danger  and  no  shadow 
of  distrust  upon  her,  Joan  made  a  braver  part- 
ing than  her  lover  expected. 

"Some  men  are  coming  to  see  my  picture 
presently,"  he  said,  very  gently.  "I  expect 
my  sweet  Joan  would  like  to  be  gone  before 
they  arrive." 

She  took  the  hint,  braced  her  heart  for  the  or- 
deal, and  rose  from  where  they  had  been  sitting 
on  Gorse  Point.  She  looked  dreamily  a  moment 
at  the  furzes  and  the  place  whereon  she  had  stood 
so  often,  then  turned  to  the  man  and  came  close 
and  held  up  four  little  spring  lilies  which  she  had 
brought  with  her.  Her  voice  grew  unsteady, 
but  she  mastered  it  again  and  smiled  at  him. 

"I  brot  these  for  'e,  dear  Jan.  Us  calls  'em 
butter-an'-eggs,  'cause  o'  the  colors,  I  s'pose. 
They'm  awnly  four  lil  flowers.  "Will  'e  keep 
'em?  An'  —  an'  give  me  summat  as  I  can 
knaw's  just  bin  in  your  hand,  will  'e?  'Tis 
fulishness,  dear  heart,  but  I'm  thinkin'  'twould 
make  the  days  a  dinky  bit  shorter." 

He  took  the  gift,  thought  a  moment,  and  gave 
her  a  little  silver  ring  off  his  finger.  Then  he 
kissed  her,  pressed  her  close  to  him  and  said 
"crood-hy,"  asking  God  to  bless  her,  and  so 
forth. 


LYING   PROPHETS  193 

"With  but  a  few  tears  rebelling  against  her  de- 
termination, Joan  prayed  good  upon  his  head, 
repaid  the  caress,  begged  him  for  his  love  to 
come  quickly  back  again,  then  tore  herself  away, 
turned  and  hastened  off  with  her  head  held 
bravely  up.  But  the  green  fields  swam  and 
the  sea  danced  for  her  a  moment  later.  The 
world  was  all  splashed  and  blotched  and  misty. 
"I'll  be  braave  like  him,"  she  thought,  smother- 
ing the  great  sobs  and  rubbing  her  knuckles  into 
her  eyes  till  she  hurt  them.  But  she  could  not 
stem  the  sorrow  in  a  moment,  and,  climbing 
through  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  she  sat  down,  where 
only  ewes  and  lambs  might  see,  and  cried  bit- 
terly a  while.  And  so  weeping,  a  sensation, 
strange,  vague,  tremendous,  came  into  her  be- 
ing ;  and  she  knew  not  what  it  meant ;  but  the 
mystery  of  it  filled  her  with  great  awe.  "  'Tis 
God,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  'tis  God's  hand  upon 
me.  He've  touched  me,  He've  sealed  me  to 
dear,  dear  Jan.  'Tis  a  feelin'  to  bring  happi- 
ness along  with  it,  nor  sorrer."  She  battled 
with  herself  to  read  the  wonder  aright,  and  yet 
at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  was  fear.  Then 
physical  sensations  distracted  her;  she  found 
her  head  was  aching  and  her  body  feeling  sick. 
Truly  the  girl  had  been  through  an  ordeal  that 
day,  and  so  she  explained  her  discomfort.  "I 
be  wivvery  an'  wisht  along  o'  leavin'  en,"  she 
said;  "oh!  kind,  good  God  A'mighty,  as  hears 
all,  send  en  back  to  me,  send  en  back  to  me 
very  soon,  for  I  caan't  live  wi'out  en  no  more." 

As  for  the  man,  he  sighed  when  Joan  disap- 


194  LYING    PROPHETS 

peared ;  and  the  expiration  of  breath  was  short 
and  sharp  as  the  sound  of  a  key  in  a  lock.  He 
had  in  truth  turned  the  key  upon  a  diary  to  be 
opened  no  more ;  for  the  sweetness  of  the  closed 
chapter  was  embalmed  in  memory,  blazoned  on 
canvas.  Yet  there  was  bitterness,  too,  of  a  sort 
in  his  sigh,  and  the  result  of  this  sunken  twinge 
at  his  heart  appeared  when  Brady,  Tarrant  and 
one  or  two  other  artists  presently  joined  him. 
They  saw  their  companion  was  perturbed,  and 
found  him  plunged  into  a  black,  cynic  fit  more 
deeply  than  usual.  He  spared  no  subject,  no 
individual,  least  of  all  himself. 

Paul  Tarrant  —  a  Christian  painter,  already 
mentioned — was  the  first  to  find  fault  with  Bar- 
ren's picture.  The  rest  had  little  but  praise  for 
it,  and  Brady,  who  grew  madly  enthusiastic, 
swore  that  "Joe's  Ship"  was  the  finest  bit  of 
work  that  ever  went  out  of  Cornwall.  But 
Tarrant  cherished  a  private  grievance,  and,  as 
his  view  of  art  and  ethics  made  it  possible  for 
him,  from  his  standpoint,  to  criticise  the  picture 
unfavorably  in  some  respects,  he  did  so.  It 
happened  that  he  had  recently  finished  a  curi- 
ous work  for  the  Academy :  a  painting  called 
"The  Good  Shepherd."  It  represented  a  young 
laboring  man  with  a  face  of  rare  beauty  but  lit- 
tle power,  plodding  homeward  under  setting 
sunlight.  Upon  his  arm  he  bore  a  lamb,  and 
behind  his  head  the  sinking  sun  made  a  glorious 
nimbus.  Barron  had  seen  this  work,  admired 
some  of  the  painting,  but  bluntly  sneered  at  the 
false  sentiment  and  vulgar  parade  of  religious 


LYING   PROPHETS  195 

conviction  which,  as  he  conceived,  animated  the 
whole.  And  now,  the  other  man,  in  whose 
heart  those  contemptuous  words  still  rankled, 
found  his  turn  had  come.  He  had  bitterly  re- 
sented Barron's  sarcastic  reference  to  those  holy 
things  which  guided  his  life ;  there  was  some- 
thing of  feminine  nature  in  him  too;  so  he  did 
not  much  regret  the  present  opportunity. 

"And  you,  Tarrant?  This  gives  you  scant 
pleasure — eh?"  asked  Barren. 

"It  is  very  wonderful  painting,  but  there's 
nothing  under  the  paint  that  I  can  see." 

"Nothing  but  the  canvas — in  so  far  at  least 
as  the  spectator  is  concerned.  Every  work  of 
art  must  have  a  secret  history  only  known  to 
its  creator. ' ' 

"What  the  divil  d'you  mean,  Paul?"  asked 
Brady. 

"You  know  what  I  mean  well  enough,"  an- 
swered the  first  speaker  coldly.  "My  views  are 
not  unfamiliar  to  any  of  you.  Here  is  a  thing 
without  a  soul — to  me." 

"God!  you  say  that!  You  can  look  at  those 
eyes  and  say  that?" 

"I  admire  the  painting,  but  cui  bonof  Who 
is  the  better,  the  wiser?  There  is  nothing  under 
the  paint." 

"You  are  one  of  those  who  turn  shadows  into 
crosses,  clouds  into  angels.  Is  it  not  so?"  asked 
Barron  smiling;  and  the  other  fired  at  this  allu- 
sion to  his  best  known  picture. 

"I  am  one  of  those  who  know  that  Art  is  the 
handmaid  of  God,"  he  answered  hotly.  "I 


196  LYING    PROPHETS 

happen  to  believe  in  Jesus  Christ,  and  I  con- 
ceive that  no  picture  is  worthy  to  be  called  great 
or  worthy  of  any  Christian's  painting  unless  it 
possess  some  qualities  calculated  to  ennoble  the 
mind  of  those  who  see.  Art  is  the  noblest  labor 
man  can  employ  time  upon.  The  thing  comes 
from  God ;  it  is  a  talent  only  to  be  employed  in 
the  highest  sense  when  devoted  to  His  glory." 

"Then  what  of  heathen  art?  You  let  your 
religion  distort  your  view  of  Nature.  You  sacri- 
fice truth  to  a  dogma.  Nature  has  no  ethics. 
You  profess  to  paint  facts  and  paint  them  wrong. 
You  are  not  a  mystic ;  that  we  could  understand 
and  criticise  accordingly.  You  try  to  run  with 
the  hare  and  hunt  with  the  hounds.  You  talk 
about  truth  and  paint  things  not  true." 

"From  your  standpoint  possibly.  Yours  is 
the  truth  of  naturalism;  mine  is  the  truth  of 
Faith." 

"If  you  are  going  to  entrench  yourself  behind 
Faith,  I  have  done,  of  course.  Only,  don't  go 
about  saying,  as  you  did  just  now,  that  Art  is 
the  noblest  labor  man  can  employ  time  upon. 
That's  bosh,  pure  and  simple.  There  are  some 
occupations  not  so  noble,  that  is  all.  Art  is  a 
heathen  and  always  will  be,  and  you  mission- 
ary-men, with  a  paint-brush  in  one  hand  and  a 
Bible  in  the  other,  are  even  worse  than  certain 
objectionable  literary  celebrities,  whose  novels 
reek  of  the  'new  journalism'  and  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount — the  ridiculous  and  sublime  in  taste- 
lees  combination.  You  missionaries,  I  say,  sap 
the  primitive  strength  of  Art;  you  demoralize 


LYING   PROPHETS  197 

her.  To  dare  to  make  Art  pander  to  a  passing 
creed  is  vile — worse  than  the  spectacle  of  the 
Salvation  Army  trying  to  convert  Buddhists. 
That  I  saw  in  India,  and  laughed.  But  we 
won't  quarrel.  You  paint  Faith's  jewelry;  I'll 
amuse  myself  with  Truth's  drabs  and  duns. 
The  point  of  view  is  all.  I  depict  pretty  Joan 
Tregenza  looking  over  the  sea  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  sweetheart's  outward-bound  ship.  I  paint 
her  just  as  I  saw  her.  There  was  no  occasion  to 
leave  out  or  put  in.  I  reveled  in  a  mere  brutal 
transcript  of  Nature.  You  would  have  set  her 
down  by  one  of  the  old  Cornish  crosses  praying 
to  Christ  to  guard  her  man.  And  round  her 
you  would  have  wrought  a  world. of  idle  signifi- 
cance. You  would  have  twisted  dogma  into  the 
flowers  and  grass-blades.  The  fact  that  the  girl 
happened  to  be  practically  brainless  and  a  Luke 
Gospeler  would  not  have  weighed  with  you  a 
moment." 

"I'm  weary  of  the  old  cant  about  Nature," 
said  Tarrant.  "You're  a  naturalist  and  a  mate- 
rialist. That  ends  it.  There  is  no  possibility  of 
argument  between  us." 

"Would  the  man  who  painted  that  gorse  cant?" 
burst  out  Brady.  "Damn  it  all,  Tarrant,  if  a 
chap  can  teach  us  to  paint,  perhaps  he  can  teach 
us  something  else  as  well.  Look  at  that  gorse, 
I  tell  you.  That's  the  truth,  won  with  many  a 
wrestle  and  heartache,  I'll  swear.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  what  went  to  get  that,  and  yet 
you  say  there's  nothing  behind  the  paint.  That's 
cant,  if  you  like.  And  as  to  your  religious  spirit, 


198  LYING    PROPHETS 

what's  the  good  of  preaching  sermons  in  paint  if 
the  paint's  false?  We're  on  it  now  and  I'll  say 
what  I  believe,  which  is  that  your  'Good  Shep- 
herd' is  all  wrong,  apart  from  any  question  of 
sentiment  at  all.  Your  own  party  will  probably 
say  it's  blasphemous,  and  I  say  it's  ridiculous. 
You've  painted  a  grand  sky  and  then  ruined  it 
with  the  subject.  Did  you  ever  see  a  man's 
head  bang  between  you  and  a  clear  setting  sun? 
Any  way,  that  figure  of  yours  was  never  painted 
with  a  sunset  behind  him,  I'll  swear." 

"You  can't  paint  truth  as  you  find  it  and 
preach  truth  as  you  believe  it  on  the  same  can- 
vaa  if  you  belong  to  any  creed  but  mine, ' '  said 
Barron  calmly.  "You  build  on  the  foundations 
of  Art  a  series  of  temples  to  your  religious 
convictions.  You  blaze  Christianity  on  every 
canvas.  I  suppose  that  is  natural  in  a  man  of 
your  opinions,  but  to  me  it  is  as  painful  as  the 
spectacle  of  advertisements  of  quack  nostrums 
planted,  as  you  shall  see  them,  beside  railway 
lines — here  in  a  golden  field  of  buttercups,  there 
rising  above  young  barley.  Of  course,  I  don't 
presume  to  assert  that  your  faith  is  a  quack 
nostrum;  only  real  Art  and  Religion  won't  run 
in  double  harness  for  you  or  anybody.  They 
did  once,  but  the  world  has  passed  beyond  that 
point." 

'  *  Never, ' '  answered  Tarrant.  ' '  We  have  proof 
of  it.  Souls  have  been  saved  by  pictures.  That 
is  as  certain  as  that  God  made  the  earth  and 
everything  on  it." 

"There  again!    Every  word  you  speak  only 


LYING   PROPHETS  199 

shows  how  difficult  it  is  for  us  to  exchange  ideas. 
Why  is  it  so  positively  certain  that  God  made 
the  earth  and  everything  on  it?  To  attribute 
man's  origin  direct  to  God  is  always,  in  my 
mind,  the  supreme  proposition  of  human  con- 
ceit. Did  it  need  a  God  to  manufacture  you  or 
me  or  Brady?  I  don't  think  so.  Consider  crea- 
tion. I  suppose  if  an  ant  could  gauge  the  in- 
genuity of  a  steam  engine,  he  would  attribute  it 
without  hesitation  to  God,  but  it  happens  that 
the  steam  engine  is  the  work  of  a  creature — a 
being  standing  somewhere  between  God  and  the 
ant,  but  much  nearer  the  latter  than  the  former. 
You  follow  me?  Even  Tarrant  will  admit,  for 
it  is  an  article  of  his  creed,  that  there  exist  many 
beings  nearer  to  God  than  man.  They  have 
wings,  he  would  tell  us,  and  are  eternal,  im- 
mortal, everlasting." 

"I  see,"  said  Brady,  "you're  going  to  say 
next  that  faulty  concerns  like  this  particular 
world  are  the  work  of  minor  intelligences. 
What  rot  you  can  talk  at  times,  old  man!" 

"Yet  is  it  an  honor  to  God  Almighty  that  we 
attribute  the  contents  of  this  poor  pill  of  a  planet 
to  Him?  I  think  it  would  be  an  insult  if  you 
ask  me.  Out  of  respect  to  the  Everlasting,  I 
would  rather  suppose  that  the  earth,  being  by 
chance  a  concern  too  small  for  His  present  pur- 
poses, He  tosses  it,  as  we  toss  a  dog  a  bone,  to 
some  ingenious  archangel  with  a  theory.  Then 
you  enjoy  the  spectacle  of  that  seraph  about  as 
busy  over  this  notable  world  as  a  child  with  a 
mud  pie.  The  winged  one  sets  to  work  with 


200  I  A*  INT,    PROPHETS 

a  will.  A  little  pinch  of  life;  develops  under 
his  skillful  manipulation;  evolution  takes  its 
remorseless  course  through  the  wastes  of  Time 
until — behold !  the  apotheosis  of  the  ape  at  last. 
Picture  that  well-meaning  but  muddle-headed 
archangel's  dismay  at  such  a  conclusion!  All 
his  theories  and  conceits — his  splendid  scheme 
of  evolution  and  the  rest — end  in  a  mean  but  ob- 
stinate creature  with  conscious  intelligence  and 
an  absolute  contempt  and  disregard  for  Nature. 
This  poor  Frankenstein  of  a  cherub  watches  the 
worm  he  has  produced  defy  him  and  refuse  ab- 
solutely to  obey  his  most  fundamental  postulates 
or  accept  his  axioms.  The  fittest  survive  no 
more;  these  gregarious,  new-born  things  pres- 
ently form  themselves  into  a  pestilential  society, 
they  breed  rubbish,  they — " 

"By  God!  stop  it,  John,"  said  Murdoch. 
"Now  you're  going  too  far.  Look  at  Tarrant. 
He'd  burn  you  over  a  slow  fire  for  this  if  he 
could.  Speak  for  yourself  at  any  rate,  not  for 
us." 

"  I  do, "  answered  the  other  bitterly.  ' '  I  speak 
for  myself.  I  know  what  a  poor,  rotten  cur  I 
am  physically  and  mentally  —  not  worth  the 
bread  I  eat  to  keep  me  alive.  And  shall  I  dare 
say  that  God  made  me?" 

"But  what's  the  end  of  this  philosophy  of  de- 
spair, old  chap?"  asked  Brady;  "what  becomes 
of  your  worst  of  all  possible  planets?" 

"The  end?  Dust  and  ashes.  My  unfortunate 
workman,  having  blundered  on  for  certain  mil- 
lions uf  yours  tinkering  am!  j>.it»-hing  and  im- 


LYING    PROPHETS  201 

proving  his  dismal  colony,  will  give  the  thing 
up;  and  God  will  laugh  and  show  him  the  mis- 
takes and  then  blot  the  essay  out,  as  a  master 
runs  his  pen  through  the  errors  in  a  pupil's  ex- 
ercise. The  earth  grows  cold  at  last,  and  the 
herds  of  humanity  die,  and  the  countless  ages 
of  agony  and  misery  are  over.  Yes,  the  poor 
vermin  perish  to  the  last  one;  then  their  black 
tomb  goes  whirling  on  until  it  shall  be  allowed 
to  meet  another  like  itself,  when  a  new  sun 
shines  in  heaven  and  space  is  the  richer  by  one 
more  star." 

"May  God  forgive  you  for  your  profanity, 
John  Barren,"  said  Tarrant.  "That  He  places 
in  your  hand  such  power  and  suffers  your  brain 
to  breed  the  devil's  dung  that  fills  it,  is  to  me 
a  mystery.  May  you  live  to  learn  your  errors 
and  regret  them." 

He  turned  away  and  two  men  followed  him. 
Conversation  among  those  who  remained  re- 
verted to  the  picture;  and  presently  all  were 
gone,  excepting  only  Barren,  who  had  to  wait 
and  see  his  work  packed. 

Remorse  will  take  strange  shapes.  His  bitter 
tirade  against  his  environment  and  himself  was 
the  direct  result  of  this  man's  recent  experiences. 
He  knew  himself  for  a  mean  knave  in  his  deal- 
ings with  an  innocent  girl  and  the  thought  turned 
the  aspect  of  all  things  into  gall. 

Solitude  brought  back  a  measure  of  peace. 
The  picture  was  packed  and  started  to  Penzance 
railway-station,  while  Barren's  tools  also  went, 
by  pony-cart,  back  to  his  rooms  in  Newtyn.  He 


202  LYING    PROPHETS 

was  to  leave  upon  the  following  morning  with 
Murdoch  and  others  who  were  taking  their  work 
to  the  Exhibitions. 

Now  he  looked  round  the  cow-byre  before  lock- 
ing it  for  the  last  time  and  returning  the  key  to 
Farmer  Ford's  boy,  who  waited  outside  to  receive 
it.  "The  chapter  is  ended,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"The  chapter  which  contains  the  best  thing  that 
ever  I  did,  and,  I  suppose,  the  worst,  as  morals 
have  it.  Yet  Art  happily  rises  above  those  misty 
abstractions  which  we  call  right  and  wrong. 
She  resembles  Nature  herself  there.  Both  de- 
mand their  sacrifices.  'The  white  martyrdom 
of  sejf-denial,  the  red  martyrdom  of  blood' — each 
is  a  thousand  times  recorded  in  the  history  of 
painting  and  will  be  a  thousand  times  again." 


LYING   PROPHETS  203 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THE  ACT   OF  FAITH 

So  John  Bavron  set  forth,  well  content  to  be- 
lieve that  he  would  never  again  visit  Cornwall, 
and  Joan  called  at  the  Penzance  post-office  on 
the  morning  which  followed  his  departure.  Her 
geographical  knowledge  was  scanty.  Truro  and 
Plymouth,  in  her  belief,  lay  somewhere  upon  the 
edge  of  the  world;  and  she  scarcely  imagined 
that  London  could  be  much  more  remote. 

But  no  letter  awaited  her,  and  life  grew  to  be 
terribly  empty.  For  a  week  she  struggled  with 
herself  to  keep  from  the  post-office,  and  then, 
nothing  doubting  that  her  patience  would  now 
be  well  rewarded,  Joan  marched  off  with  confi- 
dence for  the  treasure.  But  only  a  greater  dis- 
appointment than  the  last  resulted ;  and  she  went 
home  very  sorrowful,  building  up  explanations 
of  the  silence,  finding  excuses  for  "Mister  Jan." 
The  prefix  to  his  name,  which  had  dropped  dur- 
ing their  latter  intimacy,  returned  to  her  mind 
now  the  man  was  gone:  as  "Mister  Jan"  it  was 
that  she  thought  about  him  and  prayed  for  him. 

The  days  passed  quickly,  and  when  a  fortnight 
stood  between  herself  and  the  last  glimpse  of  her 
lover,  Joan  began  to  grow  very  anxious.  She 


204  LYING    PROPHETS 

wept  through  long  nights  now,  and  her  father, 
finding  the  girl  changed,  guessed  she  had  a 
secret  and  told  his  wife  to  find  it  out.  But  it 
was  some  time  before  Thomasin  made  any  dis- 
covery, for  Joan  lied  stoutly  by  day  and  prayed 
to  God  to  pardon  by  night.  She  strove  hard  to 
follow  the  teaching  of  the  artist,  to  find  joy  in 
flowers  and  leaves,  in  the  spring  music  of  birds, 
in  the  color  of  the  sea.  But  now  she  dimly 
guessed  that  it  was  love  of  him  which  went  so 
far  to  make  all  things  beautiful,  that  it  was  the 
magic  and  wisdom  of  his  words  which  had  gilded 
the  world  with  gold  and  thrown  new  light  upon 
the  old  familiar  objects  of  life.  Nature's  organ 
was  dumb  now  that  the  hands  which  played 
upon  it  so  skillfully  had  passed  far  away.  But 
she  was  loyal  to  her  teacher;  she  remembered 
many  things  which  he  had  said  and  tried  hard 
to  feel  as  he  felt,  to  put  her  hand  in  beautiful 
Mother  Nature's  and  walk  with  her  and  be  at 
peace.  Mister  Jan  would  soon  return ;  the  fort- 
night was  already  past;  each  day  as  she  rose 
she  felt  he  might  come  to  claim  her  before  the 
evening. 

And,  meanwhile,  other  concerns  occupied  her 
thoughts.  The  voice  which  spoke  to  her  after 
she  bid  John  Barren  "good-by,"  had  since  then 
similarly  sounded  on  the  ear  of  her  heart.  Alike 
at  high  noon  and  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
watches  it  addressed  her;  and  the  mystery  of  it, 
taken  with  her  other  sorrows,  began  to  affect 
her  physically.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  the 
girl  felt  ill  in  body.  Her  appetite  failed,  dawn 


LYING   PROPHETS  205 

found  her  sick  and  weary ;  her  glass  told  her  of 
a  white,  unhappy  face,  of  eyes  that  were  lighted 
from  within  and  shone  with  strange  thoughts. 
She  was  always  listening  now — listening  for  the 
new  voice,  that  she  might  hear  the  word  it  ut- 
tered. Her  physical  illness  she  hid  with  some 
cunning  and  put  a  bright  face  upon  life  as  far 
as  she  could  do  so  before  those  of  her  home ;  but 
the  task  grew  daily  more  difficult.  Then,  with 
a  period  of  greatly  increased  discomfort,  Joan 
grew  alarmed  and  turned  to  the  kind  God  of 
"Mister  Jan,"  and  made  great,  tearful  praying 
for  a  return  of  strength.  Her  petition  was  ap- 
parently granted,  for  the  girl  enjoyed  some  im- 
provement of  health  and  spirit.  Whereupon  she 
became  fired  with  a  notable  thought,  and  deter- 
mined to  seek  her  patron  saint  where  still  she 
suspected  his  power  held  sway:  at  the  little 
brook  which  tinkles  along  beside  the  ruins  of 
St.  Madron's  chapel  in  a  fair  coomb  below  the 
Cornish  moorlands.  The  precious  water,  as 
Joan  remembered,  had  brought  strength  and 
health  to  her  when  a  baby ;  and  now  the  girl 
longed  to  try  its  virtues  again,  and  a  great  con- 
viction grew  upon  her  that  the  ancient  saint 
never  forgot  his  own  little  ones.  Opportunity 
presently  offered,  and  through  the  first  misty 
gray  of  a  morning  in  early  April,  she  set  out 
upon  her  long  tramp  from  Newlyn  through 
Madron  to  the  ruined  baptistery. 

St.  Madron,  or  Padern,  lived  in  the  sixth 
century,  somewhat  earlier  than  Augustine.  A 
Breton  by  birth,  he  labored  chiefly  in  Wales, 


206  LYING    PROPHETS 

established  a  monastery  on  Brito-Celtic  lines  in 
Cardiganshire,  and  became  its  bishop  when  a 
see  was  established  in  that  district.  He  traveled 
far,  visited  Mount's  Bay  and  established  the 
church  of  Madron,  still  sacred  to  his  name, 
while  doubtless  the  brook  and  chapel  hard  by 
were  associated  with  him  from  the  same  period. 
In  Scawen's  time  folk  were  wont  to  take  their 
hurts  thither  on  Corpus  Christi  evening,  drink 
of  the  water,  deposit  an  offering,  and  repose  upon 
the  chapel  floor  till  dawn.  Then,  drinking  again, 
they  departed  whole,  if  faith  sufficiently  mighty 
had  supported  them.  Norden  remarks  of  the 
water  that  "its  fame  was  great  for  the  supposed 
vertue  of  healinge,  which  St.  Maderne  had  there- 
unto infused ;  and  maine  votaries  made  anuale 
pilgrimages  unto  it.  .  ."  In  connection  with 
the  custom  of  immersion  here  indicated,  we 
find  there  obtained  the  equally  venerable  prac- 
tice of  hanging  votive  rags  upon  the  thorn 
bushes  round  about  the  chapel.  This  conceit 
is  ancient  as  Japan,  and  one  not  only  in  usage 
to  this  day  among  the  Shintoists  of  that  land, 
but  likewise  common  throughout  Northern  Asia 
and,  nearer  home,  in  the  Orkneys,  in  Scotland, 
in  Ireland.  Older  far  than  Christianity  are 
these  customs;  the  megalithic  monuments  of 
the  pagan  witness  similar  practices  in  remote 
corners  of  the  earth;  rag-trees,  burdened  with 
the  tattered  offerings  of  the  devout,  yet  stud 
the  desert  of  Sue/,  and  those  who  seek  shall 
surely  find  some  holy  well  or  grave  hard  at  hund 
in  every  case.  To  mark  and  examine  the  June 


LYING   PROPHETS  207 

tion  of  these  venerable  fancies  with  Christian 
superstition  is  no  part  of  our  present  purpose, 
but  that  ideas,  pagan  in  their  birth,  have  lent 
themselves  with  sufficient  readiness  to  succes- 
sive creeds  and  been  knit  into  the  dogmas  of 
each  in  turn,  is  certain  enough.  Thus,  through 
Cornwall,  the  imaginings  of  wizard  and  wonder- 
worker in  hoary  time  come,  centuries  later,  to 
be  the  glory  and  special  power  of  a  saint.  Such 
fantastic  lore  was  definitely  interdicted  in  King 
Edgar's  reign,  when  "stone  worshipings,  divina- 
tions, well  worshipings  and  necromances"  were 
proclaimed  things  heathen,  and  unhallowed ;  but 
with  the  advent  of  the  Saint- Bishops  from  Wales, 
from  Ireland,  from  Brittany,  primitive  supersti- 
tions were  patched  upon  the  new  creed,  and,  to 
suit  private  purposes,  the  old  giants  of  the  Chris- 
tian faith  sanctified  holy  well  and  holy  stone, 
posing  by  right  divine  as  sure  dispensers  of  the 
hidden  virtue  in  stream  and  granite.  But  the 
roots  of  these  fables  burrow  back  to  paganism. 
Hundreds  of  weakly  infants  were  passed  through 
Men-an-tol — the  stone  with  a  hole  or  the  "crick- 
stone" — in  the  names  of  saints;  and  hundreds 
had  already  been  handed  through  it  centuries 
before  under  like  appeal  to  pagan  deities. 

Of  Madron  baptistery,  now  a  picturesque  ruin, 
it  seems  clear  that  until  the  Reformation  regu- 
lar worship  and  the  service  of  baptism  were 
therein  celebrated.  The  place  has  mercifully 
escaped  all  restoration  or  renovation  and  stands 
at  this  moment  open  to  the  sky  in  the  slow  hand 
of  Time.  A  brook  runs  babbling  outside,  but 


208  LYING   PROPHETS 

the  holy  well  or  colymbethra  is  now  dry,  though 
it  might  easily  be  filled  again.  This  interesting 
portion  of  the  chapel  remains  intact,  and  the  en- 
trance to  it  lies  upon  the  level  of  the  floor  ac- 
cording to  ancient  custom,  being  so  ordered  that 
the  adult  to  undergo  baptism  might  step  down 
into  the  water,  and  that  not  without  dignity. 

Hither  came  Joan.  Her  patchwork  of  faith 
and  Nature-worship  was  a  live  thing  to  her  now, 
and  she  found  no  difficulty  in  reconciling  the 
sweet  saint-stories  heard  in  childhood  from  her 
dead  mother's  lips,  with  the  beautiful  and  fair 
exposition  of  truth  which  "Mister  Jan"  found 
written  large  upon  the  world  by  Nature  in 
spring-time. 

It  was  half-past  four  o'clock  when  she  trudged 
through  Madron  to  see  the  gray  church  and  the 
little  gray  houses  all  sleeping  under  the  gray 
sky.  She  plodded  on  up  the  hill  past  the  gaunt 
workhouse  which  stands  at  the  top  of  it;  and 
what  had  seemed  soft,  sweet  repose  among  the 
cottage  homes,  felt  like  cold  death  beneath  these 
ashy  walls.  To  Joan,  the  workhouse  was  a 
word  of  shame  unutterable.  Those  among 
whom  she  lived  would  hurl  the  word  against 
enemies  as  a  prophecy  of  the  utmost  degrada- 
tion. She  shivered  as  she  passed,  and  was  sad, 
knowing  that  a  whole  world  of  poverty,  failure, 
sorrow,  regret,  was  hidden  away  in  that  cold, 
still  pile.  But  the  hand  of  sleep  lay  softly  there; 
only  a  flick  soul  or  two  stirred,  the  paupers  were 
the  equal  of  princes  till  a  hoarse  bell  brought 
them  back  out  of  blessed  unconsciousness. 


LYING   PROPHETS  209 

Bars  of  light  streaked  the  east,  and  Joan,  only 
stopping  at  the  hill  crest  to  see  dawn  open  silver 
eyes  on  the  sea,  hastened  inland  through  silent, 
dewy  fields.  Presently  a  fence  and  wall  cut 
civilization  from  the  wild  land  of  the  coomb, 
and  the  girl  proceeded  where  grass-grown  cart- 
ruts  wound  among  furze  and  heather  and  the 
silver  coils  of  new-born  bracken  just  beginning 
to  peep  up  above  the  dead  fern  of  last  year. 
This  hollow  ran  between  undulations  of  fallow 
and  meadow;  no  harrow  clinked  as  yet;  only 
the  cows  stood  here'  and  there  above  the  dry 
patches  on  the  dewy  fields  where  their  bodies 
had  lain  in  sleep.  She  saw  their  soft  eyes  and 
smelled  the  savor  of  them.  Presently  the  cart- 
ruts  disappeared  in  fine  grass  all  bediamonded, 
knobbed  with  heather,  sprouting  rusty-red,  and 
sprinkled  with  tussocks  of  coarser  grass,  where- 
on green  blades  sprang  up  above  the  dead  ones, 
where  they,  struggled,  matted  and  bleached  and 
sere.  Rabbits  flashed  here  and  there,  the  white 
under-side  of  their  little  scuts  twinkling  through 
the  gorse ;  and  then  the  birds  woke  up ;  a  thrush 
sang  low,  sleepy  notes  from  the  heart  of  a  white- 
thorn; yellowhammers  piped  their  mournful 
calls  from  the  furze.  On  Joan's  left  hand  there 
now  rose  a  clump  of  wind- worn  beech-trees,  their 
brown  spikes  breaking  to  green,  even  where  dead 
red  leaves  still  clung  to  the  parent  branches.  Be- 
neath them  ran  a  hedge  of  earth  above  a  deep 
pool  or  two,  very  clear  and  fringed  with  young 
rushes,  upright  and  triumphant  above  the  old 
dead  ones.  Everywhere  Joan  saw  Life  tram- 


210  LYING   PROPHETS 

pling  and  leaping,  growing  and  laughing  over 
the  ruins  of  things  that  had  lived  and  died.  It 
saddened  her  a  little.  Did  Nature  forget  so 
soon?  Then  she  told  herself  that  kind  Nature 
had  loved  them  and  gloried  in  them  too;  and 
now  she  would  presently  bury  all  her  dead  chil- 
dren in  beautiful  graves  of  new  green.  The 
mosses  and  marsh  were  lovely  and  the  clear 
pools  full  of  living  creatures.  But  these  things 
were  not  saint-blessed  and  eternal.  No  spring 
fed  these  silent  wells,  no  holy  man  of  old  had 
ever  smiled  upon  them. 

A  stepping-stone  by  a  wall  lay  before  her  now ; 
this  she  crossed,  heard  the  stream  murmuring 
peace,  and  hastened,  and  presently  stood  beside 
it.  Here  were  holy  ground  and  water;  here 
were  peace  and  a  place  to  pray  in.  Blue  for- 
get-me-nots looked  wondering  up,  seeing  eyes 
as  blue  as  their  own,  and  she  smiled  at  them 
and  drank  of  the  ripples  that  ran  at  their  roots. 
Gray  through  the  growing  haze  of  green,  a 
ruined  wall  showed  close  to  the  girl.  The 
blackthorns'  blooms  were  faded  around  her, 
the  hawthorn  was  not  yet  powdered  with  white. 
She  cast  one  look  to  right  and  left  before  enter- 
ing the  chapel.  A  distant  view  of  the  moorland 
rose  to  the  sky,  and  the  ragged  edge  of  the  hills 
was  marked  by  a  gaunt  engine-stuck  noting  past 
enterprise,  triumphs  long  gone  by,  ruined  hopes 
but  recently  dead.  Snug  fox -covers  of  rhodo- 
<l<'mlron  swept  up  toward  the  li- •;< •!  of  thecoonih; 
and  below,  distant  li.-ilf  ;i  mill-  or  more,  cottages 
already  showed  a  glimmer  of  gold  on  their 


LYING   PROPHETS  211 

thatches  where  the  increasing  splendor  of  day 
brightened  them,  and  morning  mists  were  rais- 
ing jeweled  arms.  Then  Joan  passed  into  the 
ruin  through  that  narrow  opening  which  marks 
the  door  of  it.  The  granite  walls  now  stand 
about  the  height  of  a  man's  shoulder  and  the 
chamber  itself  is  small.  Stone  seats  still  run 
round  two  sides  of  it;  ivy  and  stone- worts  and 
grasses  have  picked  the  mortar  from  the  walls 
and  clothed  them,  even  as  emerald  moss  and 
gray  lichens  and  black  and  gold  glorify  each 
piece  of  granite;  a  may-bush,  tangled  about  a 
great  shiny  ivy  -  tod,  surmounts  the  western 
walls  above  the  dried  well;  furzes  and  heather 
and  tall  grasses  soften  the  jagged  outlines  of  the 
ruin,  and  above  a  stone  altar,  at  the  east  end  of  it, 
rises  another  white- thorn.  At  this  season  of  the 
year  the  subsequent  floral  glories  of  the  little 
chapel  were  only  indicated :  young  briers  already 
thrust  their  soft  points  over  the  stone  of  the 
altar  and  the  first  leaves  of  foxgloves  were  un- 
folding, with  dandelions  and  docks,  biting-stone- 
crop  and  ferns,  ragged-robins  and  wild  gerani- 
ums. These  infant  things  softened  no  outline 
yet.  The  flat  paving  of  the  floor,  where  it  yet 
remained,  was  bedded  in  grass ;  a  little  square 
incision  upon  the  stone  of  the  altar  glimmered 
full  of  water  and  reflected  the  light  from  fleecy 
clouds  which  now  climbed  into  heaven,  bearing 
sunrise  fires  upward  over  a  pale  blue  sky. 

Here,  under  the  circumambient,  sparkling 
clearness,  coolness  and  silence,  Joan  stood 
with  strange  medley  of  thoughts  upon  her 


212  LYING   PROPHETS 

soul.  The  saints  and  the  fairies  mingled  there 
with  visions  of  Nature,  always  smiling,  with  a 
vague  shadow  of  one  great  God  above  the  blue, 
but  dim  and  very  far  away ;  and  a  nearer  pict- 
ure which  quickened  her  heart-beat :  the  picture 
of  "Mister  Jan."  Here  she  felt  herself  at  one 
with  the  world  spread  round  her.  The  mother 
eyes  of  a  blackbird,  sitting  upon  her  eggs  in  the 
ivy-tod,  kept  their  bright  gold  on  Joan,  but 
showed  no  fear;  the  young  rabbits  frisked  at 
hand ;  a  mole  poked  his  snout  and  little  paddle- 
paws  out  of  the  grass;  all  was  peace  and  happi- 
ness, it  seemed,  with  the  voice  of  good  St. 
Madron  murmuring  love  in  his  brooklet  at 
hand. 

Joan  knelt  down  by  the  old  altar  and  bowed 
her  head  there  and  prayed  to  Nature  and  to 
God.  At  first  merely  wordless  prayers  full  of 
passionate  entreaty  rose  to  the  Throne;  then  ut- 
terance came  in  a  wild  simple  throng  of  peti- 
tions; and  all  her  various  knowledge,  won  from 
her  mother  and  John  Barron,  found  a  place. 
Pan  and  Christ  might  each  have  heard  and  list- 
ened, for  she  called  on  the  gods  of  earth  and 
heaven  from  a  heart  that  was  full. 

"Kind  Mother  o'  the  flowers,  doan't  'e  forget 
a  poor  maiden  what  loves  'e  so  dear.  I  be  sad 
an*  sore-hearted  'cause  things  is  bad  wi'  me  now 
Mister  Jan's  gone;  an*  I  knaws  as  I've  lied  an* 
bin  wicked  'bout  Joe,  but,  kind  Mother,  I  awnly 
done  what  Mister  Jan,  as  was  wise  an'  loved 
me,  bid.  Oh,  God  A'mighty,  doau't  'E  let  en 
forget  me,  'cause  I've  gived  up  all — all  the  lil  I 


LYING   PROPHETS  213 

had  for  en,  an'  Nature  made  me  as  I  be.  Oh, 
kind  God,  make  me  happy  an'  light-hearted  an* 
strong  agin,  same  as  the  lil  birds  an'  sich  like  is 
happy  an'  strong;  an'  forgive  me  for  all  my  sins 
an'  make  me  well  for  Mister  Jan,  an'  clever  for 
Mister  Jan,  so's  I'll  be  a  fine  an'  good  wife  to 
en.  An'  forgive  me  for  lyin',  'cause  what  I 
done  was  Nature,  'cordin'  to  Mister  Jan;  an' 
Nature's  kind  to  young  things,  'cordin'  to  Mis- 
ter Jan ;  an'  I  be  young  yet.  An'  make  me  a 
better  lass,  for  I  caan't  abear  to  feel  as  I  do; 
an'  make  me  think  o'  the  next  world  arter  this 
wan.  But,  oh,  dear  God,  make  me  well  an' 
braave  agin,  for  'tis  awful  wisht  for  me  wi'out 
Mister  Jan ;  an'  make  Mister  Jan  strong  too.  I 
be  all  in  a  miz-maze  and  doan't  knaw  wheer  to 
turn  'cept  to  Nature,  dear  Lard.  Oh,  kind  God 
A'mighty,  lemme  have  my  angel  watchin'  over 
me  close,  same  as  what  mother  used  to  say  he 
did  allus.  An'  bring  Mister  Jan  back  long  very 
quick,  'cause  I'm  nothin'  but  sadness  wi'out  en. 
An',  dear  St.  Madern,  I  ax  'e  to  bless  me  same 
as  you  done  when — when  I  was  a  lil  baaby, 
'cause  I  be  gwaine  to  bathe  in  your  brook,  bein' 
a  St.  Madern  cheel.  Oh,  dear,  good  God  o'  all 
things,  please  to  help  me  an'  look  to  me,  'cause 
I  be  very  sad,  an'  I  never  done  no  harm  to 
none,  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake.  Amen." 

Then  she  said  the  Lord's  Prayer,  because  her 
mother  had  taught  her  that  no  human  petition 
was  ever  heard  unless  accompanied  by  it.  And 
it  seemed  as  though  the  lark,  winding  upward 
with  wide  spiral  to  his  song-throne  in  the  sky 


214  LYING    PROPHETS 

and  tinkling  thin  music  on  the  morning  wind, 
was  her  messemger :  which  thought  was  beauti- 
ful to  Joan  and  made  her  heart  glad. 

Never  had  she  looked  fairer.  Her  blue  eyes 
were  misty,  but  the  magic  of  prayer,  the  glory 
of  speaking  straight  to  the  Father  of  all,  call 
Him  what  she  might,  had  nobly  fortified  her 
sinking  spirit.  Peace  brooded  in  her  soul  then, 
and  faith  warmed  her  blood.  She  was  sure  her 
prayer  would  be  answered ;  she  was  certain  that 
her  health  and  her  loved  one  would  both  come 
back  to  her.  And  she  stood  by  the  altar  and 
smiled  at  the  golden  morning,  herself  the  fairest 
thing  the  sun  shone  upon. 

Having  peeped  shyly  about  her,  Joan  took  off 
her  clothes,  placed  them  on  the  altar-stones, 
shook  down  her  hair,  and  glided  softly  to  the 
stream.  At  one  point  its  waters  caught  the 
sunshine  and  babbled  over  white  sand  between 
many  budding  spikes  of  wild  parsley  and  young 
fronds  of  fern.  Naked  and  beautiful  the  girl 
stood,  her  bright  hair  glinting  to  her  waist,  all 
rippled  with  the  first  red  gold  of  the  morning, 
her  body  very  white  save  where  the  sun  and 
western  wind  had  browned  both  arms  and  neck ; 
her  form  innocent  as  yet  of  the  mystery  hid  for 
her  in  Time.  Joan's  fair  limbs  spoke  of  blood 
not  Cornish,  of  days  far  past  when  a  race  of 
giants  swept  up  from  behind  the  North  Sea  to 
tread  a  new  earth  and  take  wives  of  the  little 
dark  women  of  the  land,  abating  the  still  prev- 
alent nigrescence  of  the  Celt  with  Saxon  eyes 
and  hair,  adding  their  stature  and  their  strength 


LYING   PROPHETS  215 

to  laces  unborn.  A  sweet  embodiment  of  all 
that  was  lovely  and  pure  and  fresh,  she  looked 
— a  human  incarnation  of  youth  and  springtime. 

There  was  a  pool  deeper  than  the  general  shal- 
lowness  of  the  stream  which  served  for  Joan's 
bath,  and  she  entered  there,  where  soft  white 
sand  made  pleasant  footing  for  her  toes,  where 
more  forget-me-nots  twinkled  their  turquoise 
about  the  margin,  where  shining  gorse  towered 
like  a  sentinel  above. 

She  suffered  the  holy  water  to  flow  over  every 
inch  of  her  body,  and  then,  rubbing  her  white 
self  red  and  glowing  with  the  dead  brake  fern 
of  last  year  and  squeezing  the  water  out  of  her 
hair,  Joan  quickly  dressed  again  and  prepared 
to  depart.  She  was  about  to  leave  a  fragment 
torn  from  her  skirt  hanging  by  the  chapel,  but 
changed  her  mind,  and  getting  a  splinter  of 
granite,  rough-edged,  she  began  to  chip  away  a 
tress  of  her  own  bright  hair,  sawing  it  off  upon 
the  stone  table  as  best  she  could.  Like  a  fallen 
star  it  presently  glimmered  in  the  thorn  bush 
above  St.  Madron's  altar  where  she  wound  the 
little  lock,  presently  to  bring  gold  to  the  nests 
and  joy  to  the  heart  of  small  feathered  folk. 

Joan  walked  home  with  the  warm  blood  rac- 
ing in  her  veins,  roses  on  her  cheeks  and  the 
glory  of  hope  in  her  eyes.  Already  she  felt  her 
prayers  were  being  heard;  already  she  was 
thanking  God  for  heeding  her  cry,  and  St. 
Madron  for  the  life-giving  waters  of  his  holy 
stream.  Then,  where  finches  chattered  and 
fluttered  forward,  breakfasting  together  in 


216  LYING    PROPHETS 

pleasant  company,  a  shadow  and  a  swift, 
strong  wing  flashed  across  Joan's  sight — and 
a  hawk  struck.  The  little  people  shrieked,  a 
few  gray  feathers  puffed  here  and  there,  and 
one  spark  of  life  was  blown  out  that  other 
sparks  might  shine  the  brighter.  For  pres- 
ently Joan's  kind  "Mother  o'  the  flowers" 
watched  the  beaks  of  fledgeling  hawks  grow 
red,  and  the  parent  bird  of  prey's  cold  eyes 
brightened  with  satisfaction;  as  will  every  par- 
ent eye  brighten  at  the  spectacle  of  baby  things 
eating  wholesome  food  with  hearty  appetite. 

The  death  of  the  small  fowl  clouded  the  pil- 
grim's thoughts,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Sen- 
timent and  emotion  had  passed;  now  she  was 
eager  with  delicious  physical  hunger  and  long- 
ing for  her  breakfast.  The  girl  had  not  felt  so 
well  or  so  happy  for  a  considerable  time.  Half 
her  prayer,  she  told  herself,  was  answered  al- 
ready; and  the  other  half,  relating  to  "Mister 
Jan,"  would  doubtless  meet  with  similar  merci- 
ful response  ere  many  hours  had  flown. 

So  joyfully  homeward  out  of  dreamland  into 
a  world  of  facts  Joan  hastened. 


LYING   PROPHETS  217 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

A     THOUSAND     POUNDS 

A  GLAD  heart  shortens  the  longest  road,  and 
Joan,  whose  return  journey  from  the  holy  well 
was  for  the  most  part  downhill,  soon  found  her- 
self back  again  in  Penzance.  The  fire  of  de- 
votion still  actuated  her  movements,  and  she 
walked  fearlessly,  doubting  nothing,  to  the  post- 
office.  There  would  be  a  letter  to-day;  she 
knew  it;  she  felt  it  in  her  consciousness,  as  a 
certainty.  And  when  she  asked  for  it  and 
mentioned  her  name,  she  put  her  hand  out  and 
waited  until  the  sleepy-eyed  clerk  rummaged 
through  a  little  pile  of  letters  standing  together 
and  tied  with  a  separate  string.  She  watched 
him  slowly  untie  them  and  scan  the  addresses, 
grumbling  as  he  did  so.  Then  he  came  to  the 
last  of  all  and  read  out : 

"  'Miss  Joan  Tregenza,  Post-Office,  Penzance. 
To  be  left  until  called  for.'  " 

"Mine,  mine,  sir!  I  knawed 'e'd  have  it !  I 
knawed  as  the  kind,  good — " 

Then  she  stopped  and  grew  red,  while  the 
clerk  looked  at  her  curiously  and  then  yawned. 
"What's  a  draggle-tailed  chit  like  her  got  to  do 
with  such  a  thing?"  he  wondered,  and  then 
spoke  to  Joan : 


218  LYING    PROPHETS 

"Here  you  are;  and  you  must  sign  this  paper 
— it's  a  registered  letter." 

Joan,  her  hand  shaking  with  excitement, 
printed  her  name  where  he  directed,  thanked 
the  man  with  a  smile  that  softened  him,  and 
then  hastened  away. 

The  girl  was  faint  with  hunger  and  happiness 
before  she  reached  home.  She  did  not  dare  to 
open  the  letter  just  then,  but  took  it  from  her 
pocket  a  dozen  times  before  she  reached  Newlyn 
and  feasted  her  eyes  on  her  own  name,  very 
beautifully  and  legibly  printed.  He  had  written 
it!  His  precious  hand  had  held  the  pen  and 
formed  each  letter. 

Deep,  wordless  thanks  welled  up  in  Joan's 
heart,  for  God  was  not  very  far  away,  after  all. 
He  had  heard  her  prayer  already,  and  answered 
it  within  an  hour.  No  doubt  it  was  easy  for 
Him  to  grant  such  a  little  prayer.  It  could  be 
nothing  much  to  God  that  one  small  creature 
should  enjoy  such  happiness ;  but  what  seemed 
wonderful  was  that  He  should  have  any  time  to 
listen  at  all,  that  Ho  should  have  been  able  to 
turn  from  the  mighty  business  of  the  great 
awakening  world  and  give  a  thought  to  her. 

"Sure  'twas  the  lil  lark  as  the  good  Lard 
heard,  an'  my  asking  as  went  up-long  wi*  en," 
said  Joan  to  herself. 

She  found  her  father  at  home  and  the  family 
just  about  to  take  breakfast.  Gray  Michael  had 
returned  somewhat  unexpectedly,  with  a  fine 
catch,  and  did  not  intend  sailing  again  before 
the  evening  tide.  A  somewhat  ominous  silence 


LYING   PROPHETS  219 

greeted  the  girl,  a  silence  which  her  father  was 
the  first  to  break. 

"Ayte  your  food,  my  lass,  an'  then  come  in 
the  garden  'long  with  me,"  he  said.  "I  do  want 
a  word  with  'e,  an'  things  must  be  said  which 
I've  put  off  the  sayin'  of  tu  long.  So  be  quick's 
you  can." 

But  this  sauce  did  not  spoil  the  girl's  enjoy- 
ment of  her  porridge  and  treacle.  She  ate 
heartily,  and  her  happy  humor  seemed  catching, 
at  least  so  far  as  Tom  was  concerned.  A  bright 
color  warmed  Joan's  cheek;  the  cloud  that  had 
dimmed  her  eyes  was  there  no  longer;  and  more 
than  once  Mr.  Tregenza  looked  at  his  wife  in- 
quiringly, for  the  tale  she  had  been  telling  of 
Joan's  recent  moods  and  disorder  was  at  vari- 
ance with  her  present  spirits  and  appetite.  After 
breakfast  she  went  to  her  room  while  her  father 
waited ;  and  then  it  was  that  Joan  snatched  a 
moment  to  open  John  Barren's  letter.  There 
would  be  no  time  to  read  it  then,  she  knew: 
that  delicious  task  must  take  many  hours  of 
loving  labor ;  but  she  wanted  to  count  the  pages 
and  see  "Mister  Jan's"  name  at  the  end.  She 
knew  that  crosses  meant  kisses,  too.  There 
might  be  crosses  somewhere.  So  she  opened  the 
envelope  in  a  fever  of  joyous  excitement,  being 
careful,  however,  not  to  tear  a  letter  of  the 
superscription.  And  from  it  there  came  a  fat, 
folded  pile  of  tissue  paper.  Joan  knew  it  was 
money,  and  flung  it  on  her  bed  and  fumbled 
with  sinking  heart  for  something  better.  But 
there  was  nothing  else — only  ten  pieces  of  tissue- 


220  LYING   PROPHETS 

paper.  She  remembered  seeing  her  father  with 
similar  pieces ;  and  her  mother  saying  there  waf 
nothing  like  Bank  of  England  notes.  But  they 
had  been  crumpled  and  dirty,  these  were  snowy 
white.  Each  had  a  hundred  pounds  marked 
upon  it;  and  Joan  was  aware  that  ten  times 
a  hundred  is  a  thousand.  But  a  thousand 
pounds  possessed  n6  more  real  meaning  for  her 
than  a  million  of  money  does  for  the  average 
man.  She  could  not  estimate  its  significance  in 
the  least  or  gauge  its  possibilities.  Only  she 
knew  that  she  would  far  rather  have  bad  a  few 
words  from  "Mister  Jan"  than  all  the  money  in 
the  world. 

Mr.  Tregenza's  voice  below  broke  in  upon  the 
girl's  disappointment,  and,  hastily  hiding  the 
money  under  some  linen  in  a  little  chest  of 
drawers,  where  the  picture  of  Joe's  ship  was 
also  concealed,  she  hurried  to  join  her  father. 
But  the  empty  envelope,  with  her  name  printed 
on  it,  she  put  into  her  pocket  that  it  might  be 
near  her. 

Joan  did  not  for  an  instant  gather  what 
meaning  lay  under  this  great  gift  of  money,  and 
to  her  the  absence  of  a  letter  was  no  more  than 
a  passing  sorrow.  She  read  nothing  between 
the  lines  of  this  silence ;  she  only  saw  that  he 
had  not  forgotten,  and  only  thought  that  he 
perhaps  imagined  such  vast  sums  of  money 
would  give  her  pleasure  and  make  the  waiting 
easier.  "What  were  banknotes  to  Joan?  What 
was  life  to  her  away  from  him?  She  sighed, 
and  fell  back  upon  the  thought  of  his  wisdom 


LYING   PROPHETS 


and  knowledge.  He  must  be  in  the  right  to  de- 
lay, because  he  was  always  in  the  right.  A  let- 
ter would  presently  come  to  explain  -why  he  had 
sent  the  money  and  to  treat  of  his  return.  The 
girl  felt  that  she  had  much  to  thank  God  for, 
after  all.  He  had  sent  her  the  letter;  He  had 
answered  her  prayer  in  His  own  way.  It  ill 
became  her,  she  thought,  to  question  more 
deeply.  She  must  wait  and  be  patient,  how- 
ever hard  the  waiting. 

So  thinking,  she  joined  her  father.  Tom  was 
away  up  the  village,  Mrs.  Tregenza  found  plenty 
to  occupy  her  mind  and  body  indoors  ;  Joan  and 
Mr.  Tregenza  had  the  garden  to  themselves. 
He  was  silent  until  they  reached  the  wicket, 
then,  going  through  it,  he  led  the  way  slowly 
up  a  hill  which  wound  above  the  neighboring 
stone  quarry;  and  as  he  walked  he  addressed 
Joan.  She,  weary  enough  already,  prayed  that 
her  parent  intended  going  no  further  than  the 
summit  of  the  hill  ;  but  when  he  spoke  she  for- 
got physical  fatigue,  for  his  manner  was  short 
and  stern. 

"Theer's  things  bein'  hid  'twixt  you  an'  me, 
darter,  an'  'tis  time  you  spoke  up.  Every  par- 
ent's got  some  responsibility  in  the  matter  of  his 
cheel's  sawl,  an',  if  theer's  aught  to  knaw,  'tis 
I  must  hear  it.  'The  faither  waketh  for  the 
darter  when  no  man  knaweth,'  sez  the  Preacher, 
an'  he  never  wrote  nothin'  truer.  I've  waked 
for  you,  Joan.  'Keep  a  sure  watch  over  a 
shameless  darter,'  sez  the  Preacher  agin;  but 
God  forbid  you'm  that.  Awnly  you'm  allus 


222  LYING   PROPHETS 

wool-gatherin',  an'  roamin',  an'  wastin'  time. 
An'  time  wance  squandered  do  never  come 
agin.  I  heaj  tell  this  has  been  gwaine  forrard 
since  Joe  went  to  sea.  What's  the  matter  with 
'e?  Say  it  out  plain  an*  straight  an'  now  this 
minute." 

Joan  had  particularly  prayed  by  the  Madron 
altar  that  the  Everlasting  would  keep  her  from 
lying.  She  remembered  the  fact  as  her  father 
put  his  question;  and  she  also  recollected  that 
John  Barron  had  told  her  to  say  nothing  about 
their  union  until  he  returned  to  her.  So  she  lied 
again,  and  that  the  more  readily  because  Gray 
Michael's  manner  of  asking  his  question  put  a 
reasonable  answer  into  her  head. 

"I  s'pose  as  it  might  be  I'm  wisht  'cause  o' 
Joe  Noy,  faither." 

"Then  look  'e  to  it  an'  let  it  cease.  Joe's  in 
the  hand  o'  the  Lard  same  as  we  be.  He's  got 
to  work  out  his  salvation  in  fear  an'  tremblin* 
same  as  us.  Some  do  the  Lard's  work  ashore, 
some  afloat,  some — sich  as  me — do  it  by  land  an* 
sea  both.  You  doan't  work  Joe  no  good  traps- 
ing 'bout  inland,  here,  theer,  an'  every wheere; 
an'  you  do  yourself  harm,  'cause  it  makes  'e 
oneasy  an*  restless.  Mendin*  holes  an'  washin' 
clothes  an'  prayin*  to  the  Lard  to  'a'  mercy  on 
your  sinful  sawl's  what  you  got  to  do.  Also 
learnm'  to  cook  'gainst  the  time  you'm  a  wife 
an'  the  mother  o'  childern,  if  God  so  wills.  But 
this  ban't  no  right  way  o'  life  for  any  wan, 
gentle  or  simple,  BO  mend  it.  A  gad-about,  lazy 
female's  hell-meat  in  any  station.  Theer's 


LYING   PROPHETS  223 

enough  of  'em  as  'tis,  wi'in  the  edge  o'  Carn- 
wall  tu.  What  was  you  doin'  this  marnin'? 
Mother  sez  'er  heard  you  stirrin'  'fore  the 
birds," 

"I  went  out  a  long  walk  to  think,  faither." 

"What  'e  want  to  think  'bout?  Your  plaace 
is  to  du,  not  to  think.  God '11  think  for  'e  if  'e 
ax;  an'  the  sooner  you  mind  that  an'  call  'pon 
the  A'mighty  the  better;  'cause  the  Devil's 
ready  an'  willin'  to  think  for  'e  tu.  Read  the 
Book  more  an'  look  about  'e  less.  Man's  eyes, 
an'  likewise  maid's,  is  best  'pon  the  ground  most 
time.  Theer's  no  evil  writ  theer.  The  brain  of 
man  an'  woman  imagineth  ill  nearly  allus,  for 
why?  'Cause  they  looks  about  an'  sees  it.  Evil 
comes  in  through  the  eyes  of  'em ;  evil's  pasted 
large  'pon  every  dead  wall  in  Newlyn.  Read 
the  Book — 'tis  all  summed  up  in  that.  You've 
gotten  a  power  o'  your  mother  in  'e  yet.  Not 
but  you've  bin  a  good  darter  thus  far,  save  for 
back-slidin'  in  the  past ;  but  I  saved  your  sawl 
then,  thanks  be  to  the  voice  o'  God  in  me,  an'  I 
saved  your  mother's  sawl,  though  theer  was  tidy 
wraslin'  for  her ;  an'  I'll  save  yourn  yet  if  you'll 
do  your  paart." 

Here  Gray  Michael  paused  and  turned  home- 
ward, while  Joan  congratulated  herself  upon  the 
fact  that  a  conversation  which  promised  to  be 
difficult  had  ended  so  speedily  and  without  mis- 
fortune. Then  her  father  asked  her  another 
question. 

"An'  what's  this  I  hear  tell  'bout  you  bein' 
poorly?  You  do  look  so  well  as  ever  I  knawed 


224  LYING   PROPHETS 

'e,  but  mother  sez  you'm  that  cranky  with  vittles 
as  you  never  was  afore,  an'  wrong  inside  like- 
wise." 

"Ban't  nothin',  faither.  'Tis  awver  an*  done. 
I  ate  tu  much  or  some  sich  thing  an'  I  be  bonny 
well  agin  now." 

"Doan't  be  thinkin'  then.  'Tis  all  brain-sick- 
ness, I'll  lay.  I  doan't  want  no  doctor's  traade 
in  my  'ouse  if  us  can  keep  it  outside.  The 
Lard's  my  doctor.  Keep  your  sawl  clean,  an' 
the  Lard'll  watch  your  body.  'E's  said  as 
much.  'E  knaws  we'm  poor  trashy  worms  an' 
even  a  breath  o'  foul  air'll  take  our  lives  onless 
'E  be  by  to  filter  it.  Faith's  the  awnly  medi- 
cine worth  usin'." 

Joan  remembered  her  morning  bath  and  felt 
comforted  by  this  last  reflection.  Had  she  not 
already  found  the  magic  result?  For  a  moment 
she  thought  of  telling  her  father  what  she  had 
done,  but  she  changed  her  mind.  Such  faith  as 
that  would  have  brought  nothing  but  wrath 
upon  her. 

While  Mr.  Tregenza  improved  the  hour  and 
uttered  various  precepts  for  his  daughter's  help 
and  guidance,  Thomasin  was  occupied  at  home 
with  grave  thoughts  respecting  Joan.  She 
more  than  suspected  the  truth  from  signs  of 
indisposition  full  of  meaning  to  a  mother;  but 
while  duly  mentioning  the  girl's  illness,  Mrs. 
Tregenza  did  not  dare  to  breathe  the  color  of  1  in- 
own  rxpl;  i  nation.  She  prayed  t«>  Clod  in  :«11 
honesty  to  prove  her  wrong,  but  her  lynx  e 
waited  to  read  the  truth  she  feared.  If  things 


LYING   PROPHETS  225 

were  really  so  with  Joan,  then  they  could  not  be 
hid  from  her  eyes  much  longer;  and  in  the  event 
of  her  suspicions  proving  correct,  Mrs.  Tregenza 
told  herself,  as  a  right  Luke  Gospeler,  she  must 
proclaim  her  horrid  discovery  and  let  the  per- 
dition of  her  husband's  daughter  be  generally 
made  manifest.  She  knew  so  many  were  called, 
so  few  chosen.  No  girl  had  ever  been  more 
surely  called  than  Joan:  her  father's  trumpet 
tongue  had  thundered  the  ways  of  righteousness 
into  her  ears  from  her  birth;  but,  after  all,  it 
began  to  look  as  though  she  was  not  chosen. 
The  circumstance,  of  course,  if  proved,  would 
rob  her  of  every  Luke  Gospeler's  regard.  No 
weak  pandering  with  sentiment  and  sin  was  per- 
mitted in  that  fold.  And  Mrs.  Tregenza  had 
little  pity  herself  for  unfortunate  or  mistaken 
women.  Let  a  girl  lose  her  character  and 
Thomasin  usually  refused  to  hear  any  plea  of 
mercy  from  any  source.  Only  once  did  she  find 
extenuating  circumstances:  in  a  case  where  a 
ruined  farmer's  daughter  brought  an  action  for 
breach  of  promise  and  won  it,  with  heavy  dam- 
ages. But  money  acted  in  a  peculiar  way  with 
this  woman.  It  put  her  conscience  and  her 
judgment  out  of  focus,  softened  the  outlines  of 
events,  furnished  excuses  for  unusual  practices, 
gilded  with  a  bright  lining  even  the  blackest 
cloud  of  wrongdoing.  "Where  Mrs.  Tregenza 
could  see  money  she  could  see  light.  Mone3T 
made  her  charitable,  broad-minded,  even  toler- 
ant. She  knew  slu>  loved  it,  and  was  careful  to 
keep  the  fact  out  of  Gray  Michael's  sight  as  far 


226  LYING    PROPHETS 

as  possible.  She  held  the  purse,  and  he  felt  that 
it  was  in  good  hands,  but  cautioned  her  from 
time  to  time  against  the  awful  danger  of  letting 
a  lust  for  this  world's  wealth  come  between  the 
soul  and  God. 

And  now  a  course  long  indicated  in  Thom- 
asin's  mind  was  being  by  her  pursued.  Having 
convinced  herself  that  under  the  present  circum- 
stances any  step  to  found  or  dispel  her  fears 
concerning  Joan  would  be  just  and  proper,  she 
took  the  exceptional  one  of  searching  the  girl's 
little  room  while  her  stepdaughter  was  out  with 
Michael.  Even  as  Mr.  Tregenza  turned  to  go 
homeward  again,  his  wife  stood  in  the  midst  of 
Joan's  small  sanctuary,  and  cast  keen,  inquiring 
eyes  about  her.  She  rarely  visited  the  apart- 
ment, and  had  not  been  in  it  for  six  months. 
Now  she  came  to  set  doubt  at  rest  if  possible, 
or  confirm  it.  Her  own  secret  opinion  was  that 
Joan  had  come  to  serious  trouble  with  her 
superiors.  In  that  case  letters,  presents  or 
tokens  had  probably  passed  into  her  hands ;  and, 
if  such  existed,  in  this  room  they  would  be. 

"God  send  as  I'm  makin'  a  mistake  an* 
shaan't  find  nothin'  'tall,"  said  Mrs.  Tregenza 
to  herself.  And  then  she  began  her  scrutiny. 


LYING   PROPHETS  227 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THE    TRUTH 

THOMASIN  saw  that  all  things  about  Joan's 
room  were  neat,  spotless,  and  in  order.  For 
one  brief  moment  a  sense  of  disquiet  at  the  ac- 
tion before  her  touched  the  woman's  heart  and 
head ;  but  duty  alike  to  her  husband  and  her  step- 
daughter demanded  the  search  in  her  opinion. 
Should  there  be  nothing  to  find,  so  much  the 
better;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  matters  affecting 
Joan's  temporal  and  eternal  welfare  were  here 
hidden,  then  they  could  not  be  uncovered  too 
quickly.  She  looked  first  through  the  girl's  lit- 
tle wooden  trunk,  the  key  of  which  was  in  the 
lock,  but  nothing  save  a  childish  treasure  or  two 
rewarded  Mrs.  Tregenza  here.  In  a  broken 
desk,  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother,  Joan 
kept  a  few  Christmas  cards,  and  two  silhouettes : 
one  of  Uncle  Thomas,  of  Drift,  one  of  Mary 
Chirgwin.  Here  were  also  some  cooking  recipes 
copied  in  her  mother's  writing,  an  agate  marble 
which  Joan  had  found  on  Penzance  beach,  lav- 
ender tied  up  in  a  bag,  and  an  odd  toy  that  soft" 
ftned  Thomasin's  heart  not  a  little  as  she  picked 
it  up  and  looked  at  it.  The  thing  brought  back 
to  her  memory  a  time  four  years  earlier.  It 


228  LYING   PROPHETS 

was  a  small,  grotesque  figure  on  wires,  built  up 
of  chestnuts  and  acorns  with  a  hazel-nut  for  its 
head  and  black  pins  stuck  in  for  the  eyes.  She 
remembered  Tom  making  it  and  giving  it  to 
Joan  on  her  birthday.  Then  the  memory  of 
Joan's  love  for  Tom  from  the  time  he  was  born 
came  like  a  glow  of  sunshine  into  the  mother's 
heart,  and  for  a  moment  she  was  minded  to  re- 
linquish her  unpleasant  task  upon  the  spot;  but 
she  changed  her  intention  again  and  proceeded. 
The  box  held  little  else  save  a  parcel  of  old 
clothes  tied  up  with  rosemary  in  brown  paper. 
These  the  woman  surveyed  curiously,  and  knew, 
without  being  told,  that  they  had  belonged  to 
Joan's  mother.  For  some  reason  the  spectacle 
killed  sentiment  and  changed  hor  mood.  She 
shut  down  the  box,  and  then,  tfoiug  t°  the  chest 
of  drawers,  pulled  out  each  compartment  in 
turn.  Nothing  but  Joan's  apparel  and  her 
few  brooches  ;md  trinkets  appeared  here.  The 
history  of  each  and  all  was  familiar  to  Mrs.  Tre- 
genza.  But  on  reaching  the  bottom  drawer  of 
the  chest,  she  found  it  locked  and  the  key  ab- 
sent. To  continue  her  search,  however,  was 
not  difficult.  Nothing  separated  the  drawers, 
and  by  removing  that  above  the  last,  the  con- 
tents of  the  lowest  lay  at  her  mercy.  It  was 
full  of  linen  for  the  most  part,  but  hidden  at  the 
bottom,  Thomasin  made  a  discovery,  ;uid  found 
certain  matters  which  at  once  spoke  ->r  tremen- 
dous' inysterv  :nnl  U)  !>••!•  niiiiil.  imli«-;iteil  the 
nature  ill'  it.  First  she  C  'ine  u|>»n  tiie  little  pict- 
ure ..r  .I..,'  -!,.,  -  ,  Mcil  frame.  This 


LYING   PROPHETS  229 

might  be  an  innocent  gift  from  some  of  the 
young  men  who  had  asked  in  the  past  to  be  al- 
lowed to  paint  Joan  and  received  a  curt  nega- 
tive from  Gray  Michael.  But  the  other  dis- 
covery meant  more.  Pushing  her  hand  about 
the  drawer  she  found  a  pile  of  paper,  felt  the 
crackle  of  it,  and  pulled  it  eagerly  to  the  light. 
Then,  and  before  she  learned  the  grandeur  of 
the  sum,  she  was  seized  with  a  sudden  palpita- 
tion and  sat  down  on  Joan's  bed.  Her  mouth 
grew  full  as  a  hungry  man's  before  a  feast,  her 
lips  were  wet,  her  hand  shook  as  she  opened  and 
spread  the  notes.  Then  she  counted  them  and 
sat  gasping  like  a  landed  fish.  Thomasin  had 
never  seen  so  much  money  before  in  her  life. 
A  thousand  pounds!  Unlike  Joan,  to  whom 
the  sum  conveyed  no  significance,  Mrs.  Tre- 
genza  could  estimate  it.  Her  mind  reached 
that  far,  and  the  bank-notes,  for  her,  lay  just 
within  the  estimation  of  avarice.  Every  snowy 
fragment  meant  a  hundred  pounds — a  hundred 
sovereigns  —  two  hundred  ten-shilling  pieces. 
The  first  shock  overpast,  and  long  before  she 
grew  sufficiently  calm  to  associate  the  treasure 
with  its  possessor,  Mrs.  Tregenza  began  spend- 
ing in  her  mind's  eye.  The  points  in  house  and 
garden,  outhouse  and  sty,  whereon  money  might 
be  advantageously  expended,  rose  up  one  after 
the  other.  Then  she  put  aside  eight  hundred 
and  fifty  out  of  the  grand  total  and  pictured  her- 
self taking  it  to  the  bank.  She  thought  of  a 
nest-egg  that  would  "goody"  against  the  time 
Tom  should  grow  into  a  man ;  she  saw  herself 


230  LYING    PROPHETS 

among  the  neighbors,  pointed  at,  whispered  of 
as  a  woman  with  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
pounds  put  by;  she  saw  the  rows  of  men  sitting 
basking  about  in  Newlyn,  as  their  custom  is 
when  off  the  sea;  and  she  heard  them  drop 
words  of  admiration  at  the  sight  of  her.  Pres- 
ently, however,  this  gilded  vision  vanished, 
and  she  began  to  connect  the  money  with  Joan. 
She  solved  the  mystery  then  with  a  brutal  direct- 
ness which  hit  the  mark  in  one  direction ;  as  to 
the  source  of  the  money,  but  went  wide  of  it 
in  some  measure  upon  the  subject  of  the  girl. 
Thomasin  held  briefly  that  her  stepdaughter  had 
fallen,  and  now,  knowing  her  condition,  had  in- 
formed some  man  of  it,  with  the  result  that 
from  him  came  this  unutterable  gift.  That  the 
money  made  an  enormous  difference  to  Mrs. 
Tregenza's  mental  attitude  must  be  confessed. 
She  found  herself  fashioning  absolute  excuses 
for  Joan.  Girls  so  often  came  to  ill  through  no 
fault  of  their  own.  The  man  must  at  least  have 
been  a  gentleman  to  pay  for  his  pleasure  in  four 
figures.  Four  figures !  Here  she  stopped  think- 
ing in  order  to  picture  the  vision  of  a  unit  fol- 
lowed by  three  ciphers.  Then  she  marveled  as 
to  what  manner  of  man  he  was  who  could  send 
a  girl  like  Joan  a  thousand  pounds.  She  never 
heard  of  such  a  price  for  the  value  received. 
Her  respect  for  Joan  began  to  increase  when 
she  realized  that  the  money  was  hers.  Probably 
there  was  even  more  where  that  came  from. 
"Anyway,"  she  reflected,  "it  ban't  no  use  cry- 
in'  ower  spilt  milk.  What's  done's  done.  An* 


LYING   PROPHETS  231 

a  thousand  pounds'll  go  long  ways  to  softenin' 
the  road.  She  might  travel  up-long  to  Truro  to 
my  cousin  an'  bide  quiet  theer  till  arter,  an'  no 
harm  done,  poor  lass.  When  all's  said,  us 
knaws  the  Lard  Hissel  weer  mighty  easy  wi' 
the  like  o'  she,  an'  worser  wenches  tu.  But 
Michael — God  A'mighty  knaws  he  won't  be 
easy.  She'm  a  damned  wumm'on,  I  s'pose, 
but  she's  got  to  live  through  'er  life  here — 
damned  or  saved;  an'  she's  got  a  thousand 
pound  to  do't  with.  A  terrible  braave  dollop 
o'  money,  sure  'nough.  To  think  'ow  'ard  a 
man's  got  to  work  'fore  he  earns  five  of  'em!" 
But  her  imagination  centered  upon  Gray 
Michael  now,  and  she  almost  forgot  the  bank- 
notes for  a  moment.  She  thought  of  his  agony 
and  trembled  for  the  result.  He  might  strike 
Joan  down  and  kill  her.  The  man's  anger 
against  evil-doers  was  always  a  terrific  thing; 
and  he  had  no  idea  of  the  value  of  money.  She 
hazarded  guesses  at  the  course  he  would  pursue, 
and  each  idea  was  blacker  than  the  last.  Then 
Thoinasin  fell  to  wondering  what  Michael  would 
be  likely  to  do  with  the  money.  She  sighed  at 
this  thought,  and  then  she  grew  pale  at  the 
imaginary  spectacle  of  her  husband  tearing  the 
devil-sent  notes  to  pieces  and  scattering  them 
over  the  cliff  to  the  sea.  This  horrible  possibil- 
ity stung  her  to  another  train  of  ideas.  Might 
it  be  within  her  power  to  win  Joan's  secret, 
share  it,  and  keep  it  from  the  father?  Her 
pluck,  however,  gave  way  when  she  looked  a 
little  deeper  into  the  future.  She  would  have 


232  LYING    PROPHETS 

done  most  things  in  her  power  for  a  thousand 
pounds,  but  she  would  not  have  dared  any 
treachery  to  Michael.  The  woman  put  the 
notes  together  and  stroked  them  and  listened 
to  the  rustle  of  them  and  rubbed  her  hard  cheek 
with  them.  Then,  looking  from  the  little  win- 
dow of  Joan's  garret,  she  saw  the  girl  herself 
approaching  with  Mr.  Tregenza.  They  were 
nearly  home  again,  so  Thomasin  returned  the 
money  and  the  picture  to  their  places  in  the 
chest  of  drawers,  smoothed  the  bed,  where  she 
had  been  sitting  for  half  an  hour,  and  went 
downstairs  still  undetermined  as  to  a  course  of 
action. 

Before  dinner  was  eaten,  however,  she  had 
decided  that  her  husband  must  know  the  truth. 
Even  her  desire  toward  the  money  cooled  before 
the  prospect  of  treachery  to  him.  Fear  had 
something  to  do  with  this  decision,  but  the  wo- 
man's own  principles  were  strong.  It  is  un- 
likely that  in  any  case  they  would  have  broken 
down.  She  sent  Joan  on  an  errand  to  the  vil- 
lage after  the  meal  was  ended;  and  upon  her 
departure  addressed  her  husband  hurriedly. 

"You  said  I  was  'mazed  to  dinner,  an*  so  I 
was.  I've  gotten  bad  news  for  'e,  Michael, 
touchin*  Joan." 

"No  more  o*  that,  mother,*'  he  answered, 
"I've  talked  wi'  she  an'  said  a  word  in  season. 
She'm  well  in  body  an'  be  gwaine  to  turn  a  new 
leaf,  so  theer's  an  end  o'  the  matter." 

"'Tedn'  so,"  she  declared,  "I've  bin  in  the 
gal's  room  an'  I've  found — but  you  bide  here 


LYING    PROPHETS  233 

an'  I'll  bring  'em  to  'e.  Hold  yourself  back, 
Michael,  for  us  caan't  say  nothin'  sure  till  us 
knaws  the  truth  from  Joan." 

"She've  tawld  me  the  truth  out  a  walkin'  an' 
I've  shawed  her  the  narrer  path.  What  should 
you  find?" 

"Money — no  lil  come-by-chance  neither;  more 
money  than  ever  you  or  me  seed  in  our  born 
days  afore  or  shall  agin." 

"You'm  dreamin',  wummon!"  he  said. 

"God  knaws  I  wishes  it  weer  so,"  she  an- 
swered, and  went  once  more  to  Joan's  room. 

Gray  Michael  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
kitchen  when  she  returned,  and  Thomasin  said 
nothing,  but  put  money  and  picture  upon  the 
table.  Her  husband  fought  with  himself  a  mo- 
ment, as  it  appeared,  then  seemed  to  pray  a 
while,  standing  still  with  his  hand  pressed  over 
his  eyes,  and  finally  sat  himself  down  beside  the 
things  which  Thomasin  had  brought. 

"I'd  no  choice  but  to  tell  'e,"  she  said. 

Gray  Michael's  eyes  were  on  the  picture  and 
utter  astonishment  appeared  in  them. 

"Why!  'tis  Joe  Noy's  ship.  Us  seed  her  off 
the  islands,  outward  bound!  He  might  'a'  gived 
it  her  hisself  surely?" 

"But  t'other  thing;  the  money.  Count  them 
notes.  Noy  never  gived  Joan  them." 

He  spread  the  parcel,  counted  the  money,  and 
sat  back  thunderstruck. 

"God  in  heaven!  A  thousan'  pound,  an' 
notes  as  never  went  through  no  dirty  hands 
neither!  What  do  it  mean?" 


234  LYING   PROPHETS 

"How  should  I  tell  what  it  means?  I  found 
the  whole  fortune  hid  beneath  her  smickets. 
Lard  knaws  how  she  corned  by  it.  What  have 
the  likes  o'  she  to  give  for  money?" 

"What  do  'e  mean  by  that?"  he  blazed  out, 
rising  to  his  feet  and  clinching  his  fists. 

"  A_x  your  darter.  Do  'e  think  I'd  dare  to  say 
a  word  onless  I  was  sartain  sure?  You'd  smash 
me,  your  own  wife,  if  I  weer  wrong,  like  enough. 
I  ban't  wrong.  Joan's  wi'  cheel  or  I  never  was. 
Maybe  that  thraws  light  on  the  money,  maybe 
it  doan't.  I  did  pray  as  it  might  'a'  corned  out  to 
be  her  man  at  sea.  But  you'll  find  it  weern't. 
God  help  'e,  Michael,  my  heart  do  bleed  for  'e. 
Can  'e  find  it  hi  'e  to  be  merciful  same  as  the 
Lard  in  like  case,  or — ?" 

He  raised  his  hand  to  stop  her.  He  was  sit- 
ting back  in  his  chair  with  a  face  that  had  grown 
gray  even  to  the  skin,  with  eyes  that  looked  out 
at  nothing.  There  was  a  moment's  silence  save 
for  the  tall  clock  in  the  corner;  then  Tregenza 
brushed  beads  of  water  off  his  forehead  and 
dried  his  hand  on  his  trousers.  He  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  roof  and  gripped  his  hands  together 
on  his  chest  and  slowly  spoke  a  text  which  his 
wife  had  heard  upon  his  lips  before,  but  only  at 
times  of  deep  concern  or  emotion. 

"  'The  Lard  is  king,  be  the  people  never  so 
impatient;  He  sitteth  between  the  cherubims,  be 
the  airth  never  so  unquiet.' ' 

Few  saw  any  particular  meaning  in  this  quo- 
tation applied  in  moments  of  stress,  as  Michael 
usually  employed  it;  but  to  the  man  it  was  a 


LYING   PROPHETS  235 

supreme  utterance,  the  last  word  to  be  spoken  in 
the  face  of  all  the  evil  and  wickedness  of  the 
world.  Come  what  might,  God  still  reigned  in 
heaven. 

He  spoke  aloud  thus  far,  and  afterward,  by 
the  movement  of  his  beard  and  lip,  Thomasin 
could  see  he  was  still  talking  or  praying. 

"Let  the  Lard  lead  'e,  husband,  in  this  hard 
pass,"  she  said.  "  'Vengeance  is  Mine,'  the  Book 
sez." 

He  turned  his  eyes  upon  her.  His  brows  were 
dragged  down  upon  them;  he  had  brushed  his 
gray  hair  like  bristles  upright  on  his  head ;  across 
the  mighty  wall  of  his  forehead  jagged  cross- 
lines  were  stamped,  like  the  broken  strata  over 
a  cliff -face. 

"Ay,  you  say  it.  Vengeance  be  God's  awn, 
an'  mercy  be  God's  awn.  'Tedn'  for  no  man  to 
meddle  wi'  them.  Us  caan't  be  aught  but  just. 
She'll  have  justice  from  me — no  more'n  that. 
'Tis  all  wan  now.  Wanton  or  no  wanton,  she've 
flummoxed  me  this  day.  The  giglot  lied  an'  said 
the  thing  that  was  not.  She'rn  not  o'  the  King- 
dom— the  fust  Tregenza  as  ever  lied — the  fust." 

"God  send  it  edn'  as  bad  as  it  do  look,  mas- 
ter. 'Er  caracter  belike  ban't  gone.  S'pose  as 
she'm  married?" 

"Hould  your  clack,  wummon.     I  be  thinkin'." 

He  was  thinking,  indeed.  In  the  face  of  this 
discovery,  the  ghost  of  an  idea,  which  had 
haunted  Gray  Michael's  mind  more  than  once 
during  the  upbringing  of  Joan,  returned  a 
greater  and  more  pronounced  shadow  than  ever 


236  LYING   PROPHETS 

before.  The  conviction  carried  truth  stamped 
upon  it  from  the  standpoint  of  his  present  horrid 
knowledge.  To  an  outsider  his  thought  had  ap- 
peared absolutely  devilish,  to  the  man  himself  it 
was  as  a  buoy  thrown  to  one  drowning.  The 
belief  flooded  his  mind,  swept  him  away,  con- 
vinced him.  Its  nature  presently  appeared  as 
he  answered  Thomasin.  She  was  still  thinking 
of  the  thousand  pounds. 

"Theer's  no  word  in  the  Book  agin  mercy, 
Michael.  Joan's  your  awn  darter — fro  ward  or 
not  f reward." 

"  You'm  wrong  theer,"  he  said.  He  was  now 
cool  and  quiet.  "I  did  think  so  wance;  I  did 
tell  her  so  when  us  walked  not  two  hour  agone. 
Now  I  sees  differ'nt.  She'm  none  o'  mine. 
She'm  no  Tregenza.  Be  Nature,  as  made  us 
God-fearin'  to  a  man,  to  a  wummon,  to  a  cheel, 
gwaine  to  lie  after  generations  'pon  generations? 
Look  back  at  them  as  bred  me,  an'  them  as  bred 
them — back,  an'  back,  an'  back.  All  Tregenzas 
was  o*  the  Lard's  harvest;  an'  should  I,  as 
feared  God  more'n  any  o'  'em,  an'  fought  for 
the  Lard  of  Hosts  'fore  I  was  higher' n  this  table 
—should  I — Michael  Tregenza,  breed  a  damned 
sawl?  The  thot's  corned  black  an'  terrible  'pon 
my  mind  'fore  to-day;  an'  I've  put  en  away 
from  me,  judgin'  'twas  the  devil.  Now  I  knaw 
'twas  God  spoke ;  now  I  knaw  that  her's  none 
o'  my  gettin'.  'Who  honoreth  his  faither  shall 
'a'  joy  o'  his  awn  childern.'  Shall  I,  as  weer 
a  pattern  son,  be  cussed  wi'  a  strumpet  for  a 
darter?" 


LYING   PROPHETS  237 

"You'm  speakin'  a  hard  thing  o'  dead  bones, 
then.  The  Chi rg wins  is  upland  folks  o'  long 
standin',  knawn  so  far  as  the  Land's  End,  an' 
up  Drift  an'  down  Lizard  likewise." 

"She've  lied  tome,"  was  his  answer;  "she've 
lied  oftentimes;  she'm  false  to  whatever  I  did 
teach  her;  she've  sawld  herself — she've — no 
more  on  it — no  more  on  it  but  awnly  this :  I 
call  'pon  God  A'mighty  to  bear  witness  she'm 
no  Tregenza — never — never." 

4<  'Tweer  her  mother  in  the  gal;  but  doan't  'e 
say  more  'bout  that,  Michael.  Poor  dear  sawl, 
she'm  dead  an'  gone,  an'  she  loved  'e  wi'  all  her 
'eart,  as  I,  what  knawed  her,  can  testify  to." 

"No  more  o'  that,"  he  said,  "the  gal's  corn- 
in'.  Thank  God  she  ban't  no  cheel  o'  mine — 
thank  God,  as  'ave  tawld  me  'tedn'  so.  He 
whispered  it,  an'  I  put  it  away  an'  away.  Now 
I  knaws.  You  bide  here,  Thomasin  Tregenza, 
and  I'll  speak  what's  fittin'." 

Thus  in  one  moment  this  hideous  conviction 
was  stamped  upon  the  man's  soul  for  life.  He 
judged  the  dead  mother  by  the  daughter  and 
visited  the  child's  sin  upon  the  parent's  memory. 
Any  conclusion  more  monstrous,  more  directly 
opposed  to  every  natural  instinct,  can  hardly 
be  conceived,  but  the  man  had  been  strangling 
natural  instincts  for  fifty  years.  Only  pride  of 
family  remained.  There  were  but  few  Tre- 
genzas  left  and  soon  there  would  be  none  un- 
less Tom  carried  on  the  name.  Michael  was 
the  quintessence  of  the  Tregenza  spirit,  the  fruit 
of  generations,  the  high-water  mark.  He  stood, 


238  LYING   PROPHETS 

on  that  giddy  pinnacle  which  has  religious  mania 
for  its  precipice.  To  damn  a  dead  woman  was 
easier  than  to  accept  a  wanton  daughter.  Bet- 
ter an  unfaithful  wife  than  that  any  soul  born  of 
Tregenza  blood  should  be  lost.  So  he  washed 
his  hands  of  both,  thanking  God,  who  had 
launched  the  truth  into  his  mind  at  last;  and 
then  he  rose  to  his  feet  as  Joan  entered  the 
room. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway  with 
her  blue  eyes  fixed  in  amazement  upon  the 
kitchen  table.  Then  she  grew  very  red  to  the 
roots  of  her  hair  and  came  forward.  There  was 
almost  a  joy  in  her  mind  that  the  long  story  of 
falsehood  must  end  at  last.  She  did  not  fear 
her  father  now  and  looked  up  into  his  face  quite 
calmly  as  she  approached  the  table. 

"These  be  mine,"  she  said.  "Was  it  you, 
faither,  as  took  'em  from  wheer  they  was?" 

"  'Twas  me,  Joan,"  answered  Mrs.  Tregenza; 
"an*  I  judge  the  Lard  led  me." 

The  girl  stood  erect  and  scornful. 

"I'm  glad  you  found  them;  now  I  can  tell  the 
truth." 

« '  Truth ! ' '  thundered  Michael.  *  *  Truth— what 
do  you  knaw  'bout  Truth,  darter  o'  Baal?  Your 
life's  a  lie,  your  tongue's  rotten  in  your  mouth 
wi'  lyin*.  Never  look  in  no  honest  faace 
agin!" 

"You'd  do  best  to  bide  still  while  I  tell  'e  what 
this  here  means,"  said  Joan  quietly.  The  man's 
anger  alarmed  her  no  more  tiian  the  squeak  of 
a  caged  rat.  "I  ban't  no  darter  o'  Baal,  an'  the 


LYING   PROPHETS  239 

money's  come  by  honest.  I've  lied  afore,  but 
never  shall  again.  An'  I've  let  Joe  go  'is  ways 
thinkin'  I  loved  en,  which  I  doan't.  I  be  tokened 
to  a  furriner  from  London,  an'  he's  took  me  for 
his  awn,  an*  he  be  gwaine  to  come  down-long 
mighty  soon  an'  take  me  away.  But  I  couldn't 
tell  'e  nothin'  of  that  'cause  he  bid  me  keep  my 
mouth  shut.  So  theer. " 

"  'Took  'e  for  'is  awn' !  Wheer  is  he,  then? 
Why  be  you  here?" 

"He'm  comin',  I  tell  'e.  He'm  a  true  man, 
an'  he  shawed  me  what  'tis  to  love." 

"Bought  you,  you  damned  harlot!" 

She  knew  the  word  was  vile,  but  a  shred  of 
John  Barron's  philosophy  supported  her. 

"My  awnly  sin  is  I've  lied  to  you,  faither; 
an'  you've  no  right  to  call  me  evil  names." 

"Never  call  me  faither  no  more,  lewd  slut!  I 
be  no  faither  o'  thine,  nor  never  was.  God  A'- 
mighty!  a  Tregenza  a  wanton!  I'd  rather  cut 
my  hand  off  than  b'lieve  it  so.  It's  this — this 
—blood-money — the  price  o'  a  damned  sawl! 
No  more  lyin'.  I  knaw — I  knaw — an'  the  pick- 
sher — the  ship  of  a  true  man.  It  did  ought  to 
break  your  heart  to  see  it,  if  you  had  wan.  A 
devil-spawned  painting  feller,  in  coorse.  An' 
his  black  heart  happy  an'  content  'cause  he've 
sent  this  filth.  You  stare,  wi'  your  mother's 
eyes — you  stare,  an'  stare.  Hell's  yawning  for 
'e,  wretched  wummon,  an'  for  him  as  brot  'e  to 
it!" 

"He  doan't  believe  in  hell,  no  more  doan't 
I,"  said  Joan  calmly;  "an*  it  ban' t  a  faither's 


240  LYING    PROPHETS 

plaace  to  damn's  awn  flaish  an'  blood  no 
way." 

"Never  name  me  thy  faither  no  more!  I 
ban't  your  faither,  I  tell  'e,  an'  I  do  never  mean 
to  see  thy  faace  agin.  Go  wheer  you'm  minded ; 
but  get  'e  gone  from  here.  Tramp  the  broad 
road  with  the  crowd — the  narrer  path's  closed 
agin  'e.  And  this — this — let  it  burn  same  as 
him  what  sent  it  will." 

He  picked  up  the  note  nearest  to  him, 
crumpled  it  into  a  ball  and  flung  it  upon  the 
fire. 

"Michael,  Michael!"  cried  his  wife,  rushing 
forward,  "for  God's  love,  what  be  doin'  of? 
The  money  ban't  damned;  the  money's  hon- 
est!" 

But  Joan  did  more  than  speak.  As  the  gift 
flamed  quickly  up,  then  sunk  to  gray  ash,  a 
tempest  of  passion  carried  her  out  of  herself. 
She  trembled  in  her  limbs,  grew  deadly  pale, 
and  flew  at  her  father  like  a  tigress.  No  evil 
word  had  ever  crossed  her  lips  till  then,  though 
they  had  echoed  in  her  ears  often  enough.  But 
now  they  jumped  to  her  tongue,  and  she  cursed 
Gray  Michael  and  tore  the  rest  of  the  money  out 
of  his  hand  so  quickly  that  his  intention  of  burn- 
ing it  was  frustrated. 

"It's  mine,  it's  mine,  blast  you!"  she  screamed 
like  a  fury,  "what  right  have  you  to  steal  it? 
It's  mine — gived  me  by  wan  whose  shoe  you 
ban't  worthy  to  latch!  He's  sliawtnl  me  what 
you  be,  an'  the  like«  o'  you,  wi'  your  bell-fire 
an'  prayin'  an'  sour  looks.  I  bau't  afeared  *o 


LYING   PROPHETS  241 

you  no  more — none  o'  you.  I  be  sick  o'  the 
smeech  o'  your  God.  'Er's  a  poor  thing  along- 
side o'  mine  an'  Mister  Jan's.  I'll  gaw,  I'll 
gaw  so  far  away  as  ever  I  can;  an'  I'll  never 
call  'e  my  faither  agin,  s'elp  me  God!" 

Mrs.  Tregenza  had  thanked  Providence  under 
her  breath  when  Joan  rescued  the  notes,  but 
now,  almost  for  the  first  time,  she  realized  that 
her  own  interest  in  this  pile  of  money  was  as 
nothing.  Every  penny  belonged  to  her  step- 
daughter, and  her  stepdaughter  evidently  meant 
to  keep  it.  This  discovery  hit  her  hard,  and 
now  the  bitterness  came  forth  in  a  flood  of  words 
that  tumbled  each  over  the  other  and  stung  like 
hornets  as  they  settled. 

Gray  Michael's  broadside  had  roared  harm- 
lessly over  Joan's  erect  head;  Thomasin's  small 
shot  did  not  miss  the  mark.  She  was  furious; 
her  husband  stood  dumb;  her  virago  tongue 
hissed  the  truth;  and  Joan,  listening,  knew 
that  it  was  the  truth. 

No  matter  what  the  elder  woman  said.  She 
missed  no  vile  word  of  them  all.  She  called 
Joan  every  name  that  chills  the  ear  of  the  fallen ; 
and  she  explained  the  meaning  of  her  expres- 
sions ;  she  bid  the  girl  take  herself  and  the  love- 
child  within  her  from  out  the  sight  of  honest 
folks ;  she  told  her  the  man  had  turned  his  back 
forever,  that  only  the  ashy  road  of  the  ruined 
remained  for  her  to  tread.  And  that  was  how 
the  great  news  that  Nature  had  looked  upon  her 
for  a  mother  came  to  Joan  Tregenza.  Here  was 
the  riddle  of  the  mysterious  voice  unraveled; 


242  LYING   PROPHETS 

here  was  the  secret  of  her  physical  sorrows 
made  clear.  She  looked  wildly  from  one  to 
the  other — from  the  man  to  the  woman;  then 
she  tottered  a  step  away,  clutching  her  money 
and  her  little  picture  to  her  breast;  and  then 
she  rolled  over,  a  huddled,  senseless  heap,  upon 
the  floor. 


LYING  PROPHETS  243 


CHAPTER  SIX 

DRIFT 

WHEN  Joan  recovered  consciousness  she  found 
her  head  and  neck  wet  where  her  stepmother  had 
flung  cold  water  over  her.  Thomasin  was  at 
that  moment  burning  a  feather  under  her  nose, 
but  she  stopped  and  withdrew  it  as  the  girl's 
eyes  opened. 

"Theer,  now  you'll  be  well  by  night.  He've 
gone  aboard.  Best  to  change  your  gownd,  for 
'tis  wetted.  Then  I'll  tell-'e  what  'er  said. 
Can  'e  get  upstairs?" 

Joan  rose  slowly  and  went  with  swimming 
brain  to  her  room.  She  still  held  her  picture 
and  her  money.  She  took  off  her  wet  clothes, 
then  sat  down  upon  her  bed  to  think;  and  as  her 
mind  grew  clear,  there  crept  through  the  gloomy 
shadows  of  the  past  tragedy  a  joy.  It  lightened 
her  heart  a  moment,  then  vanished  again,  like 
the  moon  blotted  suddenly  from  the  sky  by  a 
rack  of  storm-cloud.  Joan  was  full  of  the 
stupendous  news.  The  shock  of  hearing  her 
most  unsuspected  condition  had  indeed  stricken 
her  insensible,  but  it  was  the  surprise  of  it  more 
than  the  dismay.  Now  she  viewed  the  circum- 
stance with  uncertainty,  not  knowing  the  atti- 


244  LYING  PROPHETS 

tude  "Mister  Jan"  would  adopt  toward  it.  She 
argued  with  herself  long  hours,  and  peace 
brooded  over  her  at  the  end;  for,  as  his  cher- 
ished utterances  passed  in  review  before  her 
memory,  the  sense  and  sum  of  them  seemed  to 
promise  well.  He  would  be  very  glad  to  share 
in  the  little  life  that  was  upon  the  way  to  earth. 
He  always  spoke  kindly  of  children;  he  had 
called  them  the  flower-buds  in  Nature's  lap. 
Yes,  he  must  be  glad ;  and  Nature  would  smile 
too.  Nature  knew  what  it  was  to  be  a  mother, 
Joan  told  herself.  She  was  in  Nature's  hand 
henceforth.  But  her  blue  eyes  grew  cold  when 
she  thought  of  the  morning.  So  much  for  St. 
Madron  and  his  holy  water;  so  much  for  the 
good  angels  who  her  dead  parent  had  told  her 
were  forever  stretching  loving,  in  visible  hands 
to  guard  and  shield.  "Mister  Jan's  be  the 
awnly  God,"  she  thought,  "an'  He'm  tu  far 
aways  to  mind  the  likes  o'  we;  so  us  must  trust 
to  the  gert  Mother  o'  the  flowers."  She  ac- 
cepted the  position  with  an  open  heart,  then 
turned  her  thoughts  to  her  loved  one.  Having 
now  firmly  convinced  herself  that  her  condition 
would  bring  him  gratification  and  draw  them 
still  nearer  each  to  the  other,  Joan  yearned  un- 
utterably for  his  presence.  She  puzzled  her 
brains  to  know  how  she  might  communicate 
with  him,  how  hasten  his  return.  She  remem- 
bered that  he  had  once  told  her  his  surname, 
but  she  could  not  recollect  it  now.  He  had 
always  been  "Mister  Jan"  to  her. 

She  went  down  to  her  supper  in  the  course  of 


LYING   PROPHETS  245 

the  evening,  and  the  great  matter  in  her  mind 
was  for  a  while  put  aside  before  a  present 
necessity.  Action,  she  found,  would  be  imme- 
diately required  of  her.  Her  father,  before 
going  from  the  kitchen  after  she  had  fainted, 
directed  Thomasin  to  bid  her  never  see  his  face 
again.  She  must  depart,  according  to  his  di- 
rection, on  the  following  day ;  for  the  thatched 
cottage  upon  the  cliff  could  be  her  home  no  more. 

"Theer  weern't  no  time  for  talkin';  but  I  lay 
'er'll  sing  differ'nt  when  next  ashore.  You  bide 
quiet  here  till  'er'a  home  agin.  'Tain't  nachur 
to  bid's  awn  flaish  an'  blood  go  its  ways  like 
that.  An',  'pears  to  me,  as  'tedn'  the  law 
neither.  But  you  bide  till  he'm  back.  I  be 
sorry  as  I  spawk  so  sharp,  but  you  was  that 
bowldacious  that  my  dander  brawk  loose.  Aw 
Jimmery !  to  think  as  you  dedn'  knaw  you  was 
cheeldin'!" 

"  'Twas  hearin'  so  suddint  like  as  made  me 
come  over  fainty." 

"Ate  hearty  then.  An'  mind  henceforrard 
you'm  feedin'  an'  drinkin'  for  two.  Best  get  to 
bed  so  soon's  you  can.  Us'll  talk  'bout  this  coil 
in  the  marnin'." 

"Us'll  talk  now.  I  be  off  by  light.  I  'edn' 
gwaine  to  stop  no  more.  Faither  sez  I  ban't  no 
cheel  o'  his  an'  he  doan't  want  to  see  my  faace 
agen.  Then  he  shaan't.  I'll  gaw  to  them  as 
won't  be  'shamed  o'  me:  my  mother's  people." 

"Doan't  'e  be  in  no  tearin'  hurry,  Joan,"  said 
Mrs.  Tregenza,  thinking  of  the  money.  "Let 
him,  the  chap,  knaw  fust  what's  come  along  o' 


24  (i  LYING   PROPHETS 

his  carneying,  an*  maybe  he'll  marry  'e,  as  you 
sez,  right  away.  Bide  wi'  me  till  you  tells  en. 
Let  eii  do  what's  right  an'  seemly.  That's  the 
shortest  road." 

"Iss  fay;  he'm  a  true  man.  But  I  ban't 
gwaine  to  wait  for  en  in  this  'ouse.  To-morrow 
I'll  send  my  box  up  Drift  by  the  fust  omblibus 
as  belongs  to  Staaft,  an'  walk  myself,  an'  tell 
Uncle  Thomas  all's  there  is  to  tell.  He've  got 
a  heart  in  his  breast,  an'  I'll  bide  'long  wi'  him 
till  Mister  Jan  do  come  back." 

"Wheer's  he  to  now?" 

"To  Lunnon.  He've  gone  to  make  his  house 
vitty  for  me." 

"Well,  best  to  get  Uncle  Chirgwin  to  write  to 
en,  onless  you'd  like  me  to  do  it  for  'e." 

"No.  He'll  do  what's  right — a  proper,'  braave 
man." 

"An  'mazin'  rich  seemin'ly.  For  the  Lard's 
love,  if  you'm  gwaine  up  Drift,  take  care  o'  all 
that  blessed  money.  Doan't  say  no  word  'bout 
it  till  you'm  in  the  farm,  for  thoer's  them — the 
tinners  out  o'  work  an'  sich — as  'ud  knock  'e  on 
the  head  for  half  of  it.  To  think  as  Michael 
burned  a  hunderd  pound !  Just  a  flicker  o'  pur- 
pley  fire  an*  a  hunderd  pound  gone!  'Tis 
'nough  to  make  a  body  rave." 

The  girl  flushed,  and  something  of  her  father's 
stern  look  seemed  reflected  in  her  face. 

"He  stawl  my  money.  No,  I  judge  his  word 
be  truth :  he'm  no  faither  o'  mine  if  the  blood  in 
the  veins  do  count  for  anything." 

Joan  wont  to   bed  abruptly  on   this  reni.u-k, 


LYING   PROPHETS  247 

and  lay  awake  thinking  and  wondering  through 
a  long  night — thinking  what  she  should  say  to 
Uncle  Chirgwin,  wondering  when  "Mister  Jan" 
was  coming  back  to  her,  and  picturing  his  ex- 
citement at  her  intelligence.  In  the  morning 
she  packed  her  box,  ate  her  breakfast,  and  then 
went  into  the  village  to  find  somebody  who 
would  carry  her  scanty  luggage  as  far  as  Pen- 
zance.  From  there,  an  omnibus  ran  through 
Drift,  past  Mr.  Chirgwin's  farmhouse  door. 
Joan  herself  designed  to  walk,  the  distance  by 
road  from  Newlyn  being  but  trifling.  It  chanced 
that  the  girl  met  Billy  Jago,  he  who  in  early 
spring  had  cut  down  an  elm  tree  while  John 
Barren  watched.  Him  Joan  knew,  for  he  had 
worked  on  her  uncle's  farm  for  many  years. 
Mr.  Jago,  who  could  be  relied  upon  to  do  simple 
offices,  undertook  the  task  readily  enough  and 
presently  arrived  with  a  wheelbarrow.  He 
whined,  as  ever,  about  his  physical  sufferings, 
but  drank  a  cup  of  tea  with  evident  enjoyment, 
then  fetched  Joan's  box  from  her  room  and  set 
off  with  it  to  meet  the  public  vehicle.  Her 
goods  were  to  be  left  at  Drift,  and  Joan  herself 
started  at  an  early  hour,  wishing  to  be  at  the 
farm  before  her  property.  She  walked  in  the 
garden  for  the  last  time,  marked  the  magic 
progress  of  spring,  then  took  an  unemotional 
leave  of  her  stepmother. 

"There  'edn*  no  call  to  leave  no  message  as  I 
can  see,"  said  Joan,  while  she  stood  at  the  door. 
"He  ban't  my  faither,  he  sez,  so  I'll  take  it  for 
truth.  But  I'll  ask  you  to  kiss  Tom  for  me. 


248  LYING    PROPHETS 

Us  was  allus  good  brother  tin'  sister,  whether  or 
no;  tin*  I  loves  en  dearly." 

"Iss,  I  knaw.  He'll  grizzle  an'  fret  proper 
when  he  finds  you'm  gone.  Good-by  to  'e. 
May  the  Lard  forgive  'e,  an'  send  your  man 
'long  smart;  an'  for  heaven's  sake  doan't  lose 
them  notes." 

"They  be  safe  stawed  next  to  my  skin.  Uncle 
Chirgwin'll  look  to  them;  an'  you  needn't  be 
axin'  God  A'mighty  to  forgive  me,  'cause  I 
abbun  done  nothin'  to  want  it.  I  be  Nature's 
cheel  now;  an'  I  be  in  kindly  hands.  You 
caan't  understand  that,  but  I  knaws  what  I 
knaws  through  bein*  taught.  Good-by  to  'e. 
Maybe  us'll  see  each  other  bimebye." 

Joan  held  out  her  hand  and  Mrs.  Tregenza 
shook  it.  Then  she  stood  and  watched  her  step- 
daughter walk  away  into  Newlyn.  The  day 
was  cold  and  unpleasant,  with  high  winds  and 
driving  mists.  The  village  looked  grayer  than 
usual ;  the  boats  were  nearly  all  away ;  the  gulls 
fluttered  in  the  harbor  making  their  eternal 
music.  Seaward,  white  horses  flecked  the 
leaden  water;  a  steamer  hooted  hoarsely,  loom- 
ing large  under  the  low,  sullen  sky,  as  it  came 
between  the  pierheads.  Presently  a  scat  of  heavy 
rain  on  a  squall  of  wind  shut  out  the  harbor  for 
a  time.  Mrs.  Tregenza  waited  until  Joan  had 
disappeared,  then  went  back  to  her  kitchen, 
closed  the  door,  sat  in  Gray  Michael's  great 
chair  by  the  hearth,  put  her  apron  over  her 
head  and  wept.  But  the  exact  reason  for  her 
tears  she  could  not  have  explained,  for  she  did 


LYING   PROPHETS  249 

not  know  it.  Mingled  emotions  possessed  her. 
Disappointment  had  something  to  do  with  this 
present  grief;  sorrow  for  Joan  was  also  respon- 
sible for  it  in  a  measure.  That  the  girl  should 
have  asked  her  to  kiss  Tom  was  good,  Thomasin 
thought,  and  the  reflection  moved  her  to  further 
tears;  while  that  Joan  was  going  to  put  her 
money  into  the  keeping  of  a  simple  old  fool  like 
Uncle  Chirgwin  seemed  a  highly  pathetic  cir- 
cumstance to  Mrs.  Tregenza.  Indeed,  the  more 
she  speculated  upon  it  the  sadder  it  appeared. 

Meanwhile  Joan,  leaving  Newlyn  and  turn- 
ing inland  along  the  little  lane  which  has  St. 
Peter's  church  and  the  Newlyn  brook  upon  its 
right,  escaped  the  wind  and  found  herself  walk- 
ing through  an  emerald  woodland  world  all 
wrapped  in  haze  and  rain.  Past  the  smelting 
works,  where  purple  smoke  made  wonderful 
color  in  rising  against  the  young  green,  over  the 
brook  and  under  the  avenue  of  great  elms  went 
Joan.  Her  heart  ached  this  morning,  and  she 
thought  of  yesterday.  It  seemed  as  though  a 
hundred  years  of  experience  had  passed  over  her 
since  she  knelt  by  St.  Madron's  stone  altar. 
She  told  herself  bitterly  how  much  wiser  she 
was  to-day,  and,  so  thinking  strange  thoughts, 
tramped  forward  over  Buryas  Bridge,  and  faced 
the  winding  hill  beyond.  Then  came  doubts. 
Perhaps  after  all  St.  Madron  had  answered  her 
prayer.  Else  why  the  underlying  joy  that  now 
fringed  her  sorrows  with  happiness? 

Drift  is  a  place  well  named,  when  seen,  as 
then,  gray  through  sad-colored  curtains  of  rain 


LYING    PROPHETS 

on  the  bare  hilltop.  But  the  orchard  lands  of 
the  coomb  below  were  fair,  and  many  primroses 
twinkled  in  the  soaking  green  of  the  tall  hedge- 
banks.  Joan  splashed  along  through  the  mud, 
and  presently  a  lump  rose  in  her  throat,  born  of 
thoughts.  It  had  seemed  nothing  to  leave  the 
nest  on  the  cliff,  and  she  held  her  head  high  and 
thanked  God  for  a  great  deliverance.  That  was 
less  than  an  hour  ago;  yet  here,  on  the  last  hill 
to  Drift  and  within  sight  of  the  stone  houses 
clustering  at  the  summit,  her  head  sank  lower 
and  lower,  and  it  was  not  the  rain  which  dimmed 
her  eyes.  She  much  doubted  the  value  of  further 
prayers  now,  yet  every  frantic  hope  and  aspira- 
tion found  its  vent  in  a  petition  to  her  new  God, 
as  Joan  mounted  the  hill.  She  prayed,  because 
she  could  think  of  no  other  way  to  soothe  her 
heart;  but  her  mind  was  very  weary  and  sad — 
not  at  the  spectacle  of  the  future,  for  that  she 
knew  was  going  to  be  fair  enough — but  at  the 
vision  of  the  past,  at  the  years  ended  forever,  at 
the  early  pages  of  life  closed  and  locked,  to  be 
opened  again  no  more.  A  childhood,  mostly 
quite  happy,  was  over;  she  would  probably  visit 
the  house  wherein  she  was  born  never  again. 
But  even  in  her  sorrow,  the  girl  wondered  why 
she  should  be  sad. 

Mr.  Chirgwin's  farm  fronted  the  highway, 
and  its  gray  stone  face  was  separated  therefrom 
by  a  small  and  neat  patch  of  garden.  Below 
the  house  a  gate  opened  into  the  farmyard,  and 
Uncle  Chirgwin's  land  chiefly  sloped  away  into 
the  coomb  behind,  though  certain  fields  upon  the 


LYING   PROPHETS  251 

opposite  side  of  the  highroad  also  pertained  to 
him.  The  farmhouse  was  time-stained,  and  the 
stone  had  taken  some  wealth  of  color  where 
black  and  golden  lichens  fretted  it.  The  slates 
of  the  roof  shone  with  wet  and  reflected  a  streak 
of  white  light  that  now  broke  the  clouds  near 
the  hidden  sun.  The  drippings  from  the  eaves 
had  made  a  neat  row  of  little  regular  holes 
among  the  crocuses  in  the  garden.  Tall  jonquils 
also  bent  their  heads  there,  heavy  with  water, 
and  the  white  violets  which  stood  in  patches 
upon  either  side  of  the  front  door  had  each  a 
raindrop  glimmering  within  its  cup.  A  japonica 
splashed  one  gray  wall  with  crimson  blossoms 
and  young  green  leaves;  but,  for  the  rest,  this 
house-front  was  quite  bare.  Joan  saw  Mary 
Chirgwin's  neat  hand  in  the  snowy  short  blinds 
which  crossed  the  upper  windows;  and  she  knew 
that  the  geraniums  behind  the  diamond  panes  of 
the  parlor  were  her  uncle's  care.  They  dwelt 
indoors,  winter  and  summer,  and  their  lanky, 
straggling  limbs  shut  out  much  light. 

The  visitor  did  not  go  to  the  front  door, 
whither  a  narrow  path,  flanked  with  handsome 
masses  of  "Cornish  diamonds,"  or  quartz  crys- 
tals, directly  led  from  the  wicket,  but  entered  at 
a  larger  gate  which  led  into  the  farmyard. 
Here  cattle-byres  and  shippons  ranged  snugly 
on  three  sides  of  an  open  space,  their  venerable 
slates  yellow  with  lichens,  their  thatches  green 
with  moss.  In  the  center  of  the  yard  a  great 
manure  heap  made  comfortable  lying  for  pigs 
and  poultry;  while  the  farmhouse  stretched 


252  LYING    PROPHETS 

back  upon  the  fourth  side.  Another  gate  opened 
beyond  it,  and  led  to  the  land  upon  the  sloping 
hill  and  in  the  valley  below.  Joan  passed  a  row 
of  cream  pans,  shining  like  frosted  silver  in  the 
mist,  then  turned  from  the  bleak  and  dripping 
world.  The  kitchen  door  was  open,  and  revealed 
a  large,  low  chamber  whose  rafters  were  studded 
with  orange-colored  hams,  whose  fireplace  was 
vast  and  black  save  for  a  small  wood  fire  filling 
but  a  quarter  of  the  hearth.  Grocer's  almanacs 
brought  brave  color  to  the  walls,  sharing  the 
same  with  a  big  dresser  where  the  china  made 
a  play  of  reflected  light  from  the  windows. 
Above  the  lofty  mantel-piece  there  hung  an  old 
fowling-piece,  and  a  row  of  faded  Daguerreo- 
types, into  most  of  which  damp  had  eaten  dull 
yellow  patches.  The  mantel-shelf  carried  some 
rough  stoneware  ornaments,  an  eight-day  clock, 
a  tobacco  jar,  and  divers  small  utensils  of  pol- 
ished tin.  A  big  table  covered  with  American 
cloth  filled  the  center  of  the  kitchen,  a  low  settle 
crossed  the  alcove  of  the  window,  and  a  leather 
screen,  of  four  folds  and  five  feot  high,  sur- 
rounded Uncle  Chirgwin's  own  roomy  armchair 
in  the  chimney-corner.  Strips  of  cocoanut  fiber 
lay  upon  the  ground,  but  between  them  ap- 
peared the  bare  floor.  It  was  paved  with  blue 
stone  for  the  most  part,  though  here  and  there 
a  square  of  white  broke  the  color ;  and  the  white 
patches  had  worn  lower  than  the  rest  under 
many  generations  of  hobnailed  boots.  A  faint 
odor  of  hams  was  in  the  air,  and  the  slight, 
stuffy  smell  of  feathers. 


LYING   PROPHETS  253 

A  woman  sat  in  the  window  as  Joan  entered. 
She  had  her  back  to  the  door,  and  not  hearing 
the  footfall,  went  on  with  her  work,  which  was 
the  plucking  of  a  fowl.  A  cloth  lay  spread  over 
the  floor  at  her  feet,  and  each  moment  the  pile 
of  feathers  upon  it  increased  as  the  plucker 
worked  with  rhythmic  regularity  and  sang  to 
herself  the  while. 

Mary  Chirgwin  was  a  dark,  good-looking  girl, 
with  a  face  in  which  strong  character  appeared 
too  prominently  shadowed  to  leave  room  for 
absolute  beauty.  But  her  features  were  regular 
if  swarthy;  her  eyes  were  splendid,  and  her 
brow,  from  which  black  hair  was  smoothly  and 
plainly  parted  away,  rose  broad  and  low.  There 
was  nothing  to  mark  kinship  between  the  cousins 
save  that  both  held  their  heads  finely  and  pos- 
sessed something  of  the  same  distinction  of  car- 
riage. Mary  was  eight-and-twenty,  and,  what- 
ever might  be  thought  about  her  face,  there 
could  be  but  one  opinion  upon  her  feminine 
splendor  of  figure.  Her  broad  chest  produced 
a  strange  speaking  and  singing  voice — mellow 
as  Joan's,  but  far  deeper  in  the  notes.  Mary 
gloried  in  congregational  melodies,  and  those 
who  had  not  before  heard  her  efforts  at  church 
on  Sundays  would  often  mistake  her  voice  for  a 
man's.  She  was  dressed  in  print  with  a  big 
apron  overall;  and  her  sleeves,  turned  up  to  her 
elbows,  showed  a  pair  of  fine  arms,  perfect  as  to 
shape,  but  brown  of  color  as  the  woman's  face. 

Joan  stood  motionless,  then  her  cousin  looked 
round  suddenly  and  started  almost  out  of  her 


254  LYING    PROPHETS 

chair  at  a  sight  so  unexpected.  But  she  com- 
posed herself  again  instantly,  put  down  the 
semi-naked  fowl  and  came  forward.  They  had 
not  seen  each  other  since  the  time  when  Joe  Noy 
flung  over  Mary  for  Joan;  and  the  latter,  re- 
membering this  circumstance  very  well,  had 
hoped  she  might  escape  from  meeting  her  cousin 
until  after  some  talk  with  Uncle  Thomas.  But 
Mary  hid  her  emotion  from  Joan's  sight,  and 
they  shook  hands  and  looked  into  one  another's 
faces,  each  noting  marked  changes  there  since 
the  last  occasion  of  their  meeting.  The  elder 
spoke  first,  and  went  straight  to  the  past.  It 
was  her  nature  to  have  every  connection  and 
concern  of  life  upon  a  definite  and  clear  under- 
standing. She  hated  mystery,  she  disliked 
things  hidden,  she  never  allowed  the  relations 
between  herself  and  any  living  being  to  stand 
otherwise  than  absolutely  defined. 

"You'm  come,  Joan,  at  last,  though  'twas  a 
soft  day  to  choose.  Listen  to  me,  will  'e?  Then 
us  can  let  the  past  lie,  same  as  us  lets  sleepin' 
dogs.  I  called  'pon  God  to  blight  your  life, 
Joan  Tregenza,  when — you  knaw.  I  thot  I 
weer  gwaine  to  die,  an'  I  read  the  cussin'  psalm* 
agin  you.  'Feared  to  me  as  you'd  stawl  the 
awnly  thing  as  ever  brot  a  bit  o'  brightness  to 
my  life.  But  that's  all  over.  Love  weern't  for 
me;  I  awnly  dreamed  it  weer.  An'  I  lamed 

*  The  Cursing  Ittalm—Psuilm  CTX.  If  read  by  a 
wronged  person  before  death,  it  w:is,  and  is  sometimes 
yet,  supposed  to  bring  punishment  upon  the  evil-doer. 


LYING   PROPHETS  255 

better  an'  didn't  die ;  an'  prayed  to  God  a  many 
times  to  forgive  that  first  prayer  agin  you.  The 
likes  o'  you  doan't  know  nort  'bout  the  grim 
side  o'  life  or  what  it  is  to  lose  the  glory  o'  lov- 
in'.  But  I  doan't  harbor  no  ill  agin  you  no 
more." 

"You'm  good  to  hear,  Polly,  an'  kind  words 
is  better'n  food  to  me  now.  I'll  tell  'e  'bout 
myself  bimebye.  But  I  must  speak  to  uncle  fust. 
Things  has  happened." 

"Nothin'  wrong  wi'  your  folks?" 

"I  ain't  got  no  folks  no  more.  But  I'll  tell  'e 
so  soon's  I've  tawld  Uncle  Thomas." 

"He'm  in  the  croft  somewheers.  Better  bide 
till  dinner.  Uncle '11  be  back  by  then." 

"I  caan't,  Mary — not  till  I've  spoke  wi'  en. 
I'll  gaw  long  down  Green  Lane,  then  I  shall 
meet  en  for  sure.  An'  if  a  box  o'  mine  comes 
by  the  omblibus,  'tis  right." 

"A  box!     Whatever  is  there  in  it,  Joan?" 

"All's  I've  gotten  in  the  world — leastways 
nearly.  Doan't  ax  me  nothin'  now.  You'll 
knaw  as  soon  as  need  be." 

Without  waiting  for  more  words  Joan  de- 
parted, hastened  through  the  gate  on  the  inner 
wall  of  the  farmyard  and  walked  along  the  steep 
hillside  by  a  lane  which  wound  muddily  down- 
ward to  the  grasslands,  under  high  hazel 
hedges.  The  new  leaves  dripped  showers  at 
every  gust  of  the  wind,  then  a  gleam  of  wan 
sunlight  brightened  distant  vistas  of  the  way, 
while  Joan  heard  the  patter  of  a  hundred  hoofs 
in  the  mud,  the  bleat  of  lambs,  the  deeper  an- 


25t>  LYING    PROPHETS 

swer  of  ewes,  the  barking  of  a  shepherd's  dog. 
Soon  the  cavalcade  came  into  view — a  flock  of 
sheep  first,  a  black  and  white  dog  with  a  black 
and  white  pup,  which  was  learning  his  business, 
next,  and  Uncle  Chirgwin  himself  bringing  up 
the  rear.  The  first  sunshine  of  the  day  seemed 
to  have  found  him  out.  It  shone  over  his  round 
red  face  and  twinkled  in  the  dew  on  his  white 
whiskers.  He  stumped  along  upon  short,  gait- 
ered  legs,  but  went  not  fast,  and  stayed  at  the 
steep  shoulder  of  the  hill  that  his  lambs  might 
have  rest  and  time  to  suck. 

Mary  Chirgwin  meantime  speculated  on  this 
sudden  mystery  of  her  cousin's  arrival.  She 
spread  the  cloth  for  dinner,  bid  her  maid  lay 
another  place  for  Joan  and  wondered  much 
what  manner  of  news  she  brought.  There  were 
changes  in  Joan's  face  since  she  saw  it  last — not 
changes  which  might  have  been  attributed  to 
the  possession  of  Joe  Noy,  but  an  alteration  of 
expression  betokening  thought,  a  look  of  in- 
creased age,  of  experiences  not  wholly  happy  in 
their  nature. 

And  Joan  had  also  marked  the  changes  in 
Mary.  These  indications  were  clear  enough  and 
filled  her  with  sorrow.  A  river  of  tears  will 
leave  its  bed  marked  upon  a  woman's  face;  and 
Joan,  who  had  never  thought  overmuch  of  her 
cousin's  sorrows  until  then,  began  to  feel  her 
heart  fill  and  run  over  with  sudden  sympathy. 
She  asked  herself  what  life  would  look  like  for 
her  if  " Mister  Jan'  changed  his  mind  now  and 
never  came  back  again.  That  was  how  Mary 


LYING   PROPHETS  257 

felt  doubtless  when  Joe  Noy  left  her.  Already 
Joan  grew  zealous  in  thought  for  Mary.  She 
would  teach  her  something  of  that  sweet  wisdom 
which  was  to  support  her  own  burden  in  the 
future;  she  would  tell  her  about  Nature— the 
"All-Mother  "  as  "Mister  Jan"  called  her  once. 
And,  concerning  Joe  Noy — might  it  be  within 
the  bounds  of  possibility,  within  the  power  of 
time  to  bring  these  two  together  again?  The 
thought  was  good  to  Joan,  and  wholly  occupied 
her  mind  until  the  sight  of  Uncle  Chirgwin  with 
his  sheep  brought  her  back  to  the  present  mo- 
ment and  her  own  affairs. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

A   PROBLEM 

WHEN  Mr.  Chirgwin  caught  sight  of  Joan 
his  astonishment  knew  no  bounds,  and  his  first 
thought  was  that  something  must  certainly  be 
amiss.  He  stood  in  the  roadway,  a  picture  of 
surprise,  and,  for  a  moment,  forgot  both  his 
sheep  and  lambs. 

"My  stars,  Joan!  Be  it  you  really?  "What- 
ever do  'e  make  at  Drift,  'pon  such  a  day  as 
this?  No  evil  news,  I  hope?" 

"Uncle,"  she  answered,  "go  slow  a  bit  an' 
listen  to  what  I've  got  to  say.  You  be  a  kind, 


258  LYING   PROPHETS 

good  sawl  as  judges  nobody,  ban't  you?  And 
you  love  me  'cause  your  sister  was  my  mother?" 

"Surely,  surely,  Joan;  an'  I  love  you  for  your- 
self tu — nobody  better  in  this  world." 

"You  wouldn'  go  for  to  send  me  to  hell-fire, 
would  'e?" 

"God  forbid,  lass!  Why,  whatever  be  talkin' 
'bout?" 

"Uncle  Thomas,  faither's  not  my  faither  no 
more  now.  He've  turned  me  out  his  house  an' 
denied  me.  I  ban't  no  darter  of  his  hencefor- 
rard;  an*  he'm  no  faither  o'  mine.  He  don't 
mean  never  to  look  'pon  my  faace  agin,  nor 
me  'pon  his.  The  cottage  edn'  no  home  for  me 
no  more." 

"Joan,  gal  alive!  what  talk  be  this?" 

"  'Tis  gospel.  I'm  a  damned  wummon,  'cord- 
in'  to  my  faither  as  was." 

"God  A'mighty!  You — paart  a  Chirgwin — 
as  corned,  o'  wan  side,  from  her  as  loved  the 
Lard  so  dear,  an',  'pon  t'other,  from  him  as 
feared  un  so  much.  Never,  Joan!" 

"Uncle  Thomas,  I  be  in  the  fam'ly  way;  an* 
faither's  damned  me,  an'  likewise  the  man  as 
loves  me,  an'  the  cheel  I  be  gwaine  to  bring  in 
the  world.  I've  corned  to  hear  you  speak.  Will 
you  say  the  same?  If  you  will,  I'll  pack  off  this 
instant  moment." 

The  old  man  stood  perfectly  still  and  his  jaw 
went  down  while  he  breathed  ho.-ivily;  a  world 
of  amazement  and  piteous  sorrow  sat  upon  his 
face;  his  voice  shook  and  whistled  in  the  sound 
as  he  answered. 


LYING  PROPHETS  259 

"Joan!  My  poor  Joan!  My  awn  gal,  this 
be  black  news — black  news.  Thank  God  she'm 
not  here  to  knaw — your  mother." 

"I've  done  no  wrong,  uncle;  I  ban't  'shamed 
of  it.  He'm  a  true,  good  man,  and  he'm  com- 
in'  to  marry  me  quick." 

"Joe  Noy?" 

"No,  no,  not  him.  I  thot  I  loved  en  well  till 
Mister  Jan  corned,  an'  opened  my  blind  eyes, 
an'  shawed  me  what  love  was.  Mister  Jan's  a 
gen'leman — a  furriner.  He  caan't  live  wi'out 
me  no  more;  he's  said  as  he  caan't.  An'  I'm 
droopiii'  an'  longin'  for  the  sight  o'  en.  An'  I 
caan't  bide  in  the  streets,  so  I  axes  you  to  keep 
me  till  Mister  Jan  do  come  to  fetch  me.  I  find 
words  hard  to  use  to  'splain  things,  but  his 
God's  cliffer'nt  to  what  the  Luke  Gosp'lers'  is> 
an'  I  lay  'tis  differ'nt  to  yourn.  But  his  God's 
mine  anyways,  an'  I'm  not  afeared  o'  what  I 
done,  nor  'shamed  to  look  folks  in  the  faace. 
That's  how  'tis,  Uncle  Thomas.  'Tis  Nature, 
you  mind,  an'  I  be  Nature's  cheel  now — wi'  no 
faither  nor  mother  but  her." 

The  old  man  was  snuffling,  and  a  tear  or  two 
rolled  down  his  red  face,  gathered  the  damp  al- 
ready there  and  fell.  He  groaned  to  himself, 
then  brought  forth  a  big,  red  pocket-handker- 
chief, and  wept  outright,  while  Joan  stood  si- 
lently regarding  him. 

"I'd  rather  a  met  death  than  this;  I'd  rather 
a  knawn  you  was  coffined." 

"Oh,  if  I  could  a wiily  'splain!"  she  cried, 
frantically;  "if  I  awnly  could  find  his  words 


260  LYING   PROPHETS 

'pon  my  tongue,  but  I  caan't.  They  be  hid 
down  deep  in  me,  an'  by  them  I  lives  from  day 
to  day;  but  how  can  I  make  others  see  same  as 
I  see?  I  awnly  brings  sorrer  'pon  sorrer  now. 
Thoer's  nothin'  left  but  him.  If  you  could  a 
heard  Mister  Jan !  You  would  understand,  wi* 
your  warm  heart,  but  I  caan't  make  'e;  I've 
no  terrible,  braave,  butivul  words.  I'll  gaw  my 
ways  then.  If  any  sawl  had  tawld  me  as  I'd 
ever  bring  tears  down  your  faace  I'd  never 
b'lieved  'em — never;  but  so  I  have,  an'  that's 
bitterness  to  me." 

He  took  her  by  the  hand  and  pressed  it,  then 
put  his  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her.  His  white 
bristles  hurt,  but  Joan  rejoiced  exceedingly,  and 
now  it  was  her  turn  to  shed  tears. 

"He'll  come  back — he'm  a  true  man,"  she 
sobbed;  "theer  ban't  the  likes  o'  Mister  Jan  in 
Carnwall,  an' — an'  if  you  knawed  en,  you'd  say 
no  less.  You'm  the  fust  as  have  got  to  my 
heart  since  he  went;  an'  he'd  bless  'e  if  he 
knawed." 

"Come  along  with  me,  Joan,"  answered  Uncle 
Chirgwiu,  straightening  himself  and  applying 
his  big  handkerchief  to  her  face.  "God  send 
the  man'll  be  'longside  'e  right  soon,  as  you  sez. 
Till  he  do  come,  you  shaan't  leave  me  no  more. 
Drift's  home  for  you  while  you'm  pleased  to  bide 
theer.  An'  I'll  see  your  faither  presently,  though 
I  wish  'twas  any  other  man." 

"I  knawed  you  was  allus  the  same;  I  knawed 
you'd  take  me  in.  An'  Mister  Jan  shall  knaw- 
A  a*  he'll  love  you  for't  when  he  do." 


LYING   PROPHETS  261 

"Come  an'  see  me  put  the  ewes  an'  lambs  in 
the  croft ;  then  us'll  gaw  to  dinner,  an'  I'll  hear 
you  tell  me  all  'bout  en." 

He  tried  hard  to  put  a  hopeful  face  upon  the 
position  and,  himself  as  simple  as  a  child,  pres- 
ently found  Joan's  story  not  hopeless  at  all. 
He  seemed  indeed  to  catch  some  of  her  spirit  as 
she  proceeded  and  painted  the  manifold  glories 
of  "Mister  Jan"  in  the  best  language  at  her 
command.  To  love  Nature  was  no  sin;  Mr. 
Chirgwin  himself  did  so ;  and  as  for  the  money, 
instead  of  reading  the  truth  of  it,  he  told  him- 
self very  wisely  that  the  giver  of  a  sum  so  tre- 
mendous must  at  least  be  in  earnest.  The 
amount  astounded  him.  Fired  by  Joan's  words, 
for  as  he  played  the  ready  listener  her  eloquence 
increased,  he  fell  to  thinking  as  she  thought, 
and  even  speaking  hopefully.  The  old  farmer's 
reflections  merely  echoed  his  own  simple  trust 
in  men  and  had  best  not  been  uttered,  for  they 
raised  Joan's  spirits  to  a  futile  height.  But  he 
caught  the  contagion  from  her  and  spoke  with 
sanguine  words  of  the  future,  and  even  prayed 
Joan  that,  if  wealth  and  a  noble  position  awaited 
her,  she  would  endeavor  to  brighten  the  lives  of 
the  poor  as  became  a  good  Cornish  woman.  This 
she  solemnly  promised,  and  they  built  castles 
in  the  air:  two  children  together.  His  sheep 
driven  to  their  new  pasture,  Uncle  Chirgwin  led 
the  way  home  and  listened  as  he  walked  to  Joan's 
story.  She  quite  convinced  him  before  he  reached 
his  kitchen  door — partly  because  he  was  very  well 
content  to  be  convinced,  partly  because  he  could 


262  LYING    PROPHETS 

honestly  imagine  no  man  base  enough  to  betray 
this  particular  blue-eyed  child. 

Mr.  Chirgwin's  extremely  unworldly  review 
of  the  position  was  balm  to  Joan.  Her  heart 
grew  warm  again,  and  the  old  man's  philosophy 
brightened  her  face,  as  the  sun,  now  making  a 
great  clearness  after  rain,  brightened  the  face  of 
the  land.  But  the  recollection  of  Mary  Chirg- 
win  sobered  her  uncle  not  a  little.  How  she 
would  take  this  tremendous  intelligence  he  failed 
to  guess  remotely.  Opportunity  to  impart  it  oc- 
curred sooner  than  he  expected,  for  Joan's  box 
had  just  arrived.  During  dinner  the  old  man 
explained  that  his  niece  was  to  be  a  visitor  at 
Drift  for  a  term  of  uncertain  duration;  and  after 
the  meal,  when  Joan  disappeared  to  unpack  her 
box  and  make  tidy  a  little  apple-room,  which 
was  now  empty  and  at  her  service,  Uncle  Chirg- 
win  had  speech  with  Mary.  He  braced  himself 
to  the  trying  task,  waited  until  the  kitchen  was 
empty  of  those  among  his  servants  who  ate  at 
his  table,  and  then  replied  to  the  question  which 
his  niece  promptly  put. 

' '  What  do  this  mean,  Uncle  Thomas?  What's 
come  o'  Joan  that  she  do  drop  in  'pon  us  like 
this  here  wi'  never  a  word  to  say  she  was  corn- 
in'?" 

"Polly,"   he  answered,   "your    cousin  Joan 
have  seen  sore  trouble,  in  a  manner  o'  speak- 
in',  an'  you'd  best  to  knaw  fust  as  last.     Us 
must  be  large-minded  'bout  a  thing  like  this 
She'm  tokened  to  a  gen'leman  from  Lunnon." 

"What!    An'  him—Joe  Noy?" 


LYING   PROPHETS  263 

"To  be  plain  wi'  you,  Polly,  she've  thrawed 
en  over.  Listen  'fore  you  speaks.  'Twas  a 
match  o'  Michael  Tregenza's  makin',  I  reckon, 
an',  so  like's  not,  Joe  weern't  any  more  heart- 
struck  than  Joan.  I  finds  it  hard  to  feel  as  I 
ought  to  Gray  Michael,  more  shame  to  me.  But 
Joan's  failed  in  love  wi'  a  gen'leman,  an'  he  with 
her,  an'  he'm  comin'  any  mornin'  to  fetch  'er — 
an' — an' — you  must  be  tawld — 'tis  time  as  he 
did  come.  An'  he've  sent  Joan  a  thousand 
pound  o'  paper  money  to  shaw  as  'e  means  the 
right  thing." 

But  the  woman's  mind  had  not  followed  these 
last  facts.  Her  face  was  white  to  the  lips ;  her 
hands  were  shaking.  She  put  her  head  down 
upon  them  as  she  sat  by  the  fire,  and  a  groan 
which  no  power  could  strangle  broke  from  her 
deep  bosom.  She  spoke,  and  regretted  her  words 
a  moment  later.  "Oh,  my  God!  an'  he  brawk 
off  wi'  me  for  the  likes  o'  she!" 

"Theer,  theer,  lass  Mary,  doan't  'e,  doan't  'e. 
You've  hid  your  tears  that  cunnin',  but  my  old 
eyes  has  seen  the  marks  this  many  day  an'  sor- 
rered  for  'e.  'Tis  a  hard  matter  viewed  from 
the  point  what  you  looks  'pon  it;  but  I  knaws 
you,  my  awn  good  gal ;  I  knaws  your  Saviour's 
done  a  'mazin'  deal  to  hold  you  up.  An'  'twont 
be  for  long,  'cause  the  man'll  come  for  her 
mighty  soon  seemin'ly.  Can  'e  faace  it,  the 
Lard  helpin'?  Poor  Joan's  bin  kicked  out  the 
house  by  her  faither.  I  do  not  like  en — never 
did.  What  do  'e  say?  She  doan't  count  it  no 
sin,  mind  you,  an'  doan't  look  for  no  reprovin', 


LYING   PROPHETS 


'cause  the  gen'leman  have  taught  her  terrible 
coorious  ideas;  but  'tis  just  this:  we'm  all  sin- 
ners, eh,  Polly?  An'  us  caan't  say  'sactly  what 
size  a  sin  do  look  to  God  A'mighty's  eye.  An' 
us  have  got  the  Lard's  way  o'  handlin'  sich  like 
troubles  writ  out  clear  —  eh?  Eh,  Polly?  He 
dedn*  preach  no  sermon  at  the  time  neither." 
The  old  man  prattled  on,  setting  out  the  posi- 
tion in  the  most  favorable  light  to  Joan  that 
seemed  possible  to  him.  But  his  listener  was 
one  no  longer.  She  had  forgotten  her  cousin 
and  the  present  circumstances,  for  her  thoughts 
were  with  a  sailor  at  sea.  One  tremendous  mo- 
ment of  savage  joy  gripped  her  heart,  but  the 
primitive  passion  perished  in  its  birth  -pang  and 
left  her  cold  and  faint  and  ashamed.  She  won- 
dered from  what  unknown,  unsecured  corner  of 
her  soul  the  vile  thing  came.  It  died  on  the  in- 
stant, but  the  corpse  fouled  her  thoughts  and 
tainted  them  and  made  her  feel  faint  again. 
The  irony  of  chance  burst  like  a  storm  on  the 
woman,  and  mazes  of  tangled  thoughts  made 
her  brain  whirl  in  a  chaos  of  bewilderment.  She 
sat  motionless,  her  face  dark,  and  much  mystery 
in  her  wonderful  eyes,  while  Mr.  Chirgwin,  with 
shaking  head  and  scriptural  quotation  and  tears, 
babbled  on,  pleading  for  Joan  with  all  his 
strength.  Mary  heard  little  of  what  he  said. 
She  was  occupied  with  facts  and  asking  herself 
her  duty.  From  the  storm  in  her  mind  arose  a 
clear  question  at  last,  and  she  could  not  answer 
it.  The  point  had  appeared  unimportant  to  any- 
body but  Mar3r  Chirgwin,  but  no  question  of  con- 


LYING   PROPHETS  265 

duct  ever  looked  trivial  to  her.  At  least  the 
doubt  was  definite  and  afforded  mental  occupa- 
tion. She  wondered  now  whether  it  was  well  or 
possible  that  she  and  Joan  could  live  together 
under  the  same  roof.  Why  such  a  problem  had 
arisen  she  knew  not ;  but  it  stood  in  the  path,  a 
fact  to  be  dealt  with.  Her  heart  told  her  that 
Joan  and  her  uncle  alike  erred  in  the  supposi- 
tion that  the  girl's  seducer  would  ever  return. 
She  read  the  great  gift  of  money  as  Thomasin 
had  read  it — rightly ;  and  the  thought  of  living 
with  Joan  was  at  first  horrible  to  her. 

Mr.  Chirgwin  talked  and  Mary  reflected.  Then 
she  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"  'Tis  tu  gert  a  thing  for  me  to  say — no  wum- 
mon  was  ever  plaaced  like  what  I  be  now.  I 
do  mean  to  see  passon  at  Sarcreed,  uncle.  He'll 
knaw  what's  right  for  me.  If  he  bids  me  stay, 
I'll  stay.  'Tis  the  thot  o'  Joe  Noy  maddens  me. 
My  head'll  burst  if  I  think  any  more.  I'll  go 
to  passon." 

4 'Whether  you'll  stay,  Polly !  Why  shouldn't 
'e  stay?  Surely  it  do—" 

"Doan't  'e  talk  no  more  'tall,  uncle.  You 
caan't  knaw  what  this  is  to  me,  you  doan't  un- 
derstan'  a  wummon  faaced  wi'  a  coil  like  this 
here.  Joe — Joe  as  loved  'er,  I  s'pose,  differ'nt 
to  what  'e  did  me.  An'  she,  when  his  back 
weer  turned — an' — an' — me — God  help  me! — 
as  never  could  do  less  than  love  en  through 
all!" 

She  was  gone  before  he  had  time  to  answer, 
but  he  realized  her  mighty  agony  of  mind  and 


266  LYING    PROPHETS 

stood  dumb  and  frightened  before  it.  Then  a 
thought  came  concerning  Joan  and  he  felt  that, 
at  all  costs,  he  must  speak  to  Mary  again  before 
she  went  out.  Mr.  Chirgwin  waited  quietly  at 
the  stair-foot  until  she  came  down.  The  turmoil 
was  in  her  eyes  still,  but  she  spoke  calmly  and 
listened  to  him  when  he  replied. 

"Doan't  'e  say  iiuthin'  to  Joan,  Uncle  Thomas. 
I  be  gwaine  to  larn  my  duty,  as  is  hidden  from 
me.  An'  my  duty  I  will  do." 

"An*  so  you  all  us  have,  Polly,  since  you  was 
a  grawed  gal;  an'  God  knaws  it.  But — do 'e 
think  as  you  could— in  a  manner  o'  speakin' — 
hide  names  from  passon?  Ban't  no  call  to  tell 
what's  fallen  out  to  other  folks.  Joan — eh, 
Polly?  Might  'e  speak  in  a  parable  like — same 
as  Scripture — wi'out  namin'  no  names.  For 
Joan's  sake,  Mary — eh?" 

She  was  silent  a  full  minute,  then  answered 
slowly. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,  uncle.  I  hadn'  thot 
o'  she  just  then.  Iss  fay,  you'm  right  theer. 
Ban't  no  work  o'  mine  to  tell  'bout  her." 

She  hesitated,  and  the  old  man  spoke  again. 

"I  s'pose  that  a  bit  o'  prayer  wouldn'  shaw 
light  on  it — eh,  Polly?  Wi'out  gwaine  to  San- 
creed.  The  Lard  knaws  your  fix  better'n  what 
any  words  'ud  put  it  clear  to  passon.  An' 
theer's  yourself  tu.  'Pears  to  me,  axin'  your 
pardon,  for  you'm  clever'n  what  I  am,  that 
'tedn'  a  tale  what  you  can  put  out  'fore  any 
other  body  'sactly  —  even  a  holy  man  like 
him." 


LYING   PROPHETS  267 

She  saw  at  once  that  it  was  not.  Her  custom 
had  been  to  get  the  kind-hearted  old  clergyman 
of  her  parish  church  to  soothe  the  doubts  and 
perplexities  which  not  seldom  rose  within  her 
strenuous  mind.  And  before  this  great,  crush- 
ing problem,  with  the  pretext  of  the  one  diffi- 
culty which  had  tumbled  uppermost  from  the 
chaos  and  so  been  grasped  as  a  reality,  she  had 
naturally  turned  to  her  guide  and  friend.  But, 
as  her  uncle  spoke,  she  saw  that  in  truth  this 
matter  could  not  be  laid  naked  before  any  man. 
Another's  hidden  life  was  involved;  another's 
secret  must  come  out  if  all  was  told,  and  Mary's 
sense  of  justice  warned  her  that  this  could  not 
be.  She  had  taken  her  own  mighty  grief  to  the 
little  parsonage  at  Sancreed,  and  a  kindly  coun- 
selor, who  knew  sorrow  at  first  hand,  helped  her 
upon  the  road  that  henceforth  looked  so  lonely 
and  so  long ;  but  this  present  trial,  though  it 
tore  the  old  wounds  open,  must  be  borne  alone. 
She  saw  as  much,  and  turned  and  went  upstairs 
again  to  her  chamber. 

"Think  of  her  kindly,"  said  Uncle  Chirgwin 
as  Mary  left  him  without  more  words.  "She'm 
so  young  an'  ignorant  o'  the  gert  world,  Polly. 
An'  if  the  worst  falls,  which  God  forbid,  'tis  her 
as'll  suffer  most,  not  we." 

"Us  have  all  got  to  suffer  an'  suffer  this  side 
our  graaves,"  she  said,  mounting  wearily. 

5 'So  young  an'  purty  as  she  be — the  moral  o' 
her  mother.  I  doan't  knaw — 'tis  sich  a  wonner- 
f  ul  world — but  them  blue  eyes — them  round  blue 
eyes  couldn't  do  a  thing  as  was  wrong  afore  God 


268  LYING    PROPHETS 

as  wan  might  fancy,"  he  said  aloud,  not  know- 
ing she  was  out  of  earshot.  Then  he  heaved  a 
sigh,  returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  presently  de- 
parted to  the  fields. 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

WAITING    FOR    "MISTER  JAN" 

WITH  searching  of  heart,  Mary  Chirgwin 
spent  time  during  that  afternoon.  In  one  room 
Joan,  happier  than  she  had  been  for  many  days, 
set  out  her  few  possessions,  boldly  hung  the  pict- 
ure of  Joe  Noy's  ship  upon  the  wall  and  gazed 
at  it  with  affection,  for  it  spoke  of  the  painter, 
not  the  sailor,  to  her ;  while,  in  a  chamber  hard 
by,  Mary  solved  the  problem  of  the  day,  coming 
at  her  conclusion  with  great  struggle  of  mind 
and  clashing  of  arguments.  She  resolved  at 
last  to  abide  at  Drift  with  her  uncle  and  with 
Joan.  The  reason  for  those  events  now  crowd- 
ing upon  her  life  was  hidden  from  her;  and  why 
Providence  saw  fit  to  awaken  or  mightily  in- 
tensify the  sorrows  which  time  was  lulling  to 
sleep,  she  could  not  divine.  She  accepted  her 
position,  none  the  less,  doubted  nothing  but  that 
the  secret  hidden  in  these  matters  would  some 
day  be  explained,  and,  according  to  her  custom 


LYING   PROPHETS  269 

before  the  approach  of  all  mundane  events  and 
circumstances  affecting  herself,  viewed  the  pres- 
ent trial  as  heaven-sent  to  purify  and  strengthen. 
So  your  religious  egotists  are  ever  wont  to  read 
into  the  great  waves  of  chance,  as  here  and 
there  a  ripple  from  them  sets  their  own  little 
vessels  shaking,  as  here  and  there  some  splash 
of  foam,  a  puff  of  wind,  strikes  the  nutshell 
which  floats  their  lives,  a  personal,  deliberate 
intervention,  an  event  designed  by  the  Ever- 
lasting to  test  their  powers,  ripen  their  char- 
acters, equip  their  souls  for  an  eternity  of 
satisfaction. 

At  tea  time  the  cousins  met  again,  and  Uncle 
Chirgwin,  returning  from  his  affairs,  was  re- 
joiced to  learn  Mary's  decision.  No  outward 
sign  marked  her  struggle.  She  was  calm,  even 
stately,  with  a  natural  distinction  which  physi- 
cally appeared  in  her  bearing  and  carriage.  She 
chilled  Joan  a  little,  but  not  with  intention.  Yet 
Joan  was  bold  for  her  love  and  spoke  no  less 
than  the  truth  when  she  asserted  that  she  viewed 
her  position  without  shame  and  without  remorse. 
She  spoke  of  it  openly,  fearlessly,  and  kept  Uncle 
Chirgwin  on  thorns  between  the  cold  silence  of 
his  elder  niece  and  the  garrulous  chatter  of  the 
younger.  The  saint  was  so  stern,  the  sinner  so 
happy  and  so  perfectly  impressed  with  her  own 
innocence,  which  latter  fact  Mary  too  saw  clear- 
ly ;  and  it  instantly  solved  half  the  problem  in 
her  mind.  Joan  had  obviously  been  sent  to 
Drift  that  the  truth  might  reach  her  heart.  She 
came  a  heathen  from  the  outer  darkness  of  sin, 


270  LYING    PROPHETS 

with  vain  babbling  on  her  lips  and  a  mind  empty. 
She  called  herself  "Nature's  child"  and  the 
theatric  thunders  of  Luke  Gospeldoin  had  never 
taught  her  that  she  was  God's.  Here,  then, 
was  one  to  be  brought  into  the  fold  with  all  pos- 
sible dispatch,  and  Mary,  who  loved  religious 
battle,  braced  herself  to  the  task  while  silently 
listening  to  Joan,  that  she  might  the  better  learn 
what  manner  of  spiritual  attack  would  best  meet 
this  sorry  case. 

Uncle  Chirgwin  took  charge  of  his  niece's 
bank-notes,  and,  after  some  persuasion,  con- 
sented to  accept  the  weekly  sum  of  three  shil- 
lings and  sixpence  from  Joan.  He  made  many 
objections  to  any  such  arrangement,  but  the  girl 
overruled  them,  declaring  absolutely  that  she 
would  not  stop  at  Drift,  even  until  her  future 
husband's  return,  unless  the  payment  of  money 
was  accepted  from  her.  It  bred  a  secret  joy  in 
Joan  to  feel  that  "Mister  Jan's"  wealth  now 
enabled  her  to  enjoy  an  independence  which 
even  Mary  could  not  share.  She  much  desired 
to  give  more  money,  but  Uncle  Chirgwin  re- 
duced the  sum  to  three  shillings  and  sixpence 
weekly  and  would  take  no  more.  This  wealth 
was  viewed  with  very  considerable  loathing  by 
Mary  Chirgwin,  and  she  criticised  her  uncle's 
decision  unfavorably ;  but  he  accepted  the  own- 
er's view,  arguing  that  it  was  only  justice  to  all 
parties  so  to  do,  until  facts  proved  whether  Joan 
was  mistaken.  The  uoton  did  not  cause  him  un- 
easiness— at  any  rate  during  this  stage  of  affairs 
— and  he  took  them  to  Penzance  upon  the  occa- 


LYING   PROPHETS  271 

sion  of  his  next  visit.  Mr.  Chirgwin's  lawyer 
saw  to  the  safe  bestowal  of  the  money;  and 
when  she  heard  that  her  nine  hundred  pounds 
would  produce  about  five-and-twenty  every  year 
and  yet  not  decrease  the  while,  Joan  was  much 
astonished. 

Meantime  John  Barron  neither  came  to  fetch 
her,  nor  sent  any  writing  to  tell  of  the  causes 
for  his  delay.  The  girl  was  fruitful  of  new  rea- 
sons for  his  silence,  and  then  grew  a  black  fear 
which  answered  all  doubts  and,  by  its  reason- 
ableness, terrified  her.  Perhaps  "Mister  Jan" 
was  ill—  too  ill  even  to  write.  He  had  but  little 
strength — that  she  knew,  and  few  friends — of 
that  Joan  was  also  aware,  for  he  had  told  her 
so.  Yet,  surely,  there  were  those,  if  only  his 
servants,  who  might  ha\c  written  to  bid  her 
hasten.  A  line — a  single  word — and  she  would 
get  into  the  train  and  stop  in  it  until  she  saw 
"London"  written  on  a  board  at  a  station. 
Then  she  would  leap  out  and  find  him  and  get 
to  his  heart  and  warm  it  and  kiss  life  back  to 
his  body,  light  to  his  loved  gray  eyes.  So  think- 
ing, time  dragged,  and  as  the  novelty  of  the  new 
life  abated,  and  wore  thin,  Joan's  spirits  wav- 
ered until  long  and  longer  intervals  of  gloomy 
sadness  marked  the  duration  of  each  day  for 
her.  But  she  was  young,  and  hope  yet  held 
revels  in  her  heart  when  the  mood  favored, 
when  the  wind  was  soft,  the  sun  bright,  and 
Mother  Nature  seemed  close  and  kind,  as  often 
happened.  Joan  worked  too,  helping  Mary  and 
.the  maids,  but  after  a  wayward  manner  of  her 


272  LYING   PROPHETS 

own.  There  was  no  counting  upon  her  and  she 
loved  better  to  be  with  her  uncle,  abroad  upon 
the  land,  or  by  herself,  hidden  in  the  orchard, 
in  the  fruit  garden,  or  in  the  secret  places  of  the 
coomb. 

She  had  her  favorite  spots,  for  as  yet  that 
great,  overwhelming  regard  for  the  old  stone 
crosses,  which  came  to  her  afterward,  had  not 
grown  into  a  live  passion.  Her  present  pilgrim- 
ages were  short,  her  shrines  those  of  Nature's 
building.  Much  she  loved  the  arm  of  an  an- 
cient apple-tree  hid  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
orchard.  A  great  gnarled  limb  bent  abruptly 
out,  grew  long  and  low,  and  was  propped  at 
a  distance  of  three  yards  from  the  parent  tree. 
Midway  between  the  stem  and  support,  a  crooked 
elbow  of  the  bough  made  a  pleasant  seat  for 
Joan;  and  here,  when  life  at  the  farm  looked 
more  gray  than  common,  she  came  and  some- 
times sat  long  hours.  Her  perch  raised  her 
above  a  velvet  scented  sea  of  wall-flowers  which 
ran  in  regular  waves  beneath  the  apple-trees,  un- 
der murmuring  of  many  bees.  The  blossom 
above  Joan's  head  was  all  a  lacework  of  sunny 
rose  and  cream;  and  the  sun  painted  glorious 
russet  harmonies  below,  glinted  magically  in 
the  green  and  white  above,  turned  the  gray 
lichens,  which  clustered  on  the  weather  side  of 
the  trunks  and  boughs,  to  silver.  The  glory 
of  life  here  always  heartened  Joan.  She  felt 
the  immortality  of  Nature,  who,  from  naked 
earth  and  barren  boughs,  thus  at  the  sun's 
smile  splendidly  awakened,  and  teemed  and 


LYING   PROPHETS  273 

overflowed  with  bewildering,  inexhaustible 
luxuriance.  Not  seldom  this  aspect  of  her 
Mother's  infinite  wealth  touched  her  blood, 
and  a  strange  sensation  as  of  very  lust  of  life 
made  her  wild.  At  such  times  she  would  pick 
the  green  things  and  tear  them  and  watch  the 
colorless  life  ooze  from  their  wounds;  she  would 
gather  blossoms  and  scatter  them  against  the 
wind,  break  buds  open  and  pluck  their  hearts 
out,  fill  her  mouth  with  sorrel  and  young  grass- 
shoots,  and  feel  the  cool  saps  of  them  upon  her 
palate.  And  sometimes  her  Mother  frightened 
her,  for  the  dim  clouds  hid  beneath  the  horizon 
of  maternity  were  moving  now  and  their  color 
was  dark.  Nature  had  as  many  moods  as  Joan 
and  often  looked  distant  and  terrible.  Poor  lit- 
tle blue-eyed  "sister  of  the  sun  and  moon!" 
She  likened  herself  so  bravely  to  the  other  chil- 
dren of  her  Mother — to  the  stars,  to  the  fair 
birch-trees,  where  emerald  showers  now  twinkled 
down  over  the  silver  stems,  to  the  uncurling 
fronds  of  the  fern,  to  the  little  trout  in  the 
coomb-stream;  and  yet  she  was  not  content 
as  they  were. 

"Her's  good,  so  good,  but  oh!  if  her  was  a 
bit  nigher — if  I  could  sit  in  her  lap  an'  feel  her 
arms  around  me  an'  thread  the  daisies  into 
chains  like  when  I  was  a  lil  maid !  But  I  be 
a  grawed  wummon  now — an'  yet  caan't  feel  it 
so — not  yet.  Her'll  hold  my  hand,  maybe,  an' 
lead  me  'pon  the  road  past  pain  an'  sorrow.  I 
can  trust  her,  'cause  Mister  Jan  did  say  as 
Nature  never  lies — never." 


274  LYING   PROPHETS 

So  the  child's  thoughts  wandered  on  a  day 
when  she  sat  upon  the  bough  and  brought  a 
shower  of  pale  petals  down  with  every  move- 
ment. But  as  yet  only  the  shadows  of  shadows 
clouded  her  thoughts  when  she  thought  about 
herself.  It  was  the  loneliness  brought  real  care 
— the  loneliness  and  the  waiting. 

She  spent  time,  too,  in  Uncle  Chirgwin's  old 
walled  garden.  This  place  and  its  products 
went  for  little  in  the  traffic  of  the  farm,  though 
every  year  its  owner  was  wont  to  count  upon 
certain  few  baskets  of  choice  fruit  as  an  addi- 
tion to  his  income,  and  every  year  his  hopes  were 
blighted.  For  the  walls  whereon  his  peaches 
and  nectarines  grew  had  stood  through  genera- 
tions, their  red  brick  work  was  much  fretted  by 
time,  and  the  interstices  between  the  bricks  made 
snug  homes  for  a  variety  of  insects.  Joan  once 
listened  to  her  uncle  upon  this  subject,  and 
henceforth  chose  to  make  his  scanty  fruit  her 
special  care. 

"  Tis  like  this,"  he  explained,  "an*  specially 
wi'  the  necter'ns.  The  moment  they  graws  a 
shade,  an'  long  afore  they  stone,  them  dratted 
lil  auld  sow-pigs  *  falls  'pon  'em  cruel.  Then 
they  waits  theer  time  till  the  ripenin',  an',  blame 
me,  but  the  varmints  do  allus  knaw  just  a  day 
'fore  I  does,  when  things  be  ready,  an'  they  eats 
the  peaches  an'  necter'ns  by  night,  gouging  'em 
shameful,  same  as  if  you'd  done  it  wi'  your 
nails.  'Tis  a  terrible  coorious  wall  for  sow-pigs, 


'How-pigs—  Wood  1  ice. 


LYING   PROPHETS  275 

likewise  for  snails;  an'  I  be  allus  a  gwaine  to 
have  en  repaired  an'  pinted,  but  yet  somehow 
'tedn'  done.  But  your  sharp  eyes'll  be  a  sight 
o'  use  wi'  creepin'  things.  'Tis  a  reg'lar  Noah's 
Ark  o'  a  wall,  to  be  sure ;  not  but  what  I  lay 
theer's  five  pound  worth  o'  stone  fruit  'pon  it 
most  years  if  'twas  let  bide." 

Joan  enjoyed  watching  the  peaches  grow. 
First  they  peeped  like  pearls  from  the  dried 
frills  of  their  blossoms;  then  they  expanded 
and  cast  off  the  encumbrance  of  dead  petals 
and  nestled  against  the  red  bricks  that  sucked 
up  sunshine  and  held  it  for  them  when  the  sun 
had  gone.  She  found  the  garden  wall  was  a 
whole  busy  world,  and,  taught  by  her  vanished 
master,  she  took  interest  in  all  that  dwelt  there- 
on. But  the  snails  and  woudlice  she  slew  ruth- 
lessly that,  her  uncle  might  presently  come  by 
his  five  pounds'  value  of  fruit. 

Mary  Chirgwin  speedily  discovered  the  task 
of  reforming  her  cousin  was  like  to  be  lengthy 
and  arduous.  There  appeared  no  foundations 
upon  which  to  work,  and  while  the  certainty  of 
Barren's  return  still  remained  with  Joan  as  a 
vital  guide  to  conduct,  no  other  gospel  than  that 
which  he  had  taught  found  her  a  listener.  She 
refused  to  go  to  church,  to  Mary's  chagrin  and 
Uncle  Chirg win's  sorrow;  but  he  explained  the 
matter  correctly  and  indeed  found  a  clew  to 
most  of  Joan's  actions  at  this  season.  Mary 
saw  the  old  man's  growing  love  for  the  new  ar- 
rival, and  a  smaller  mind  might  have  sunk  to 
jealousy  quickly  enough  under  such  circum- 


276  LYING    PROPHETS 

stances,  but  she,  deeply  concerned  with  Joan's 
eternal  welfare,  rose  above  temporary  details. 
At  the  same  time  her  uncle's  mild  and  tolerant 
attitude  caused  her  pain. 

"As  to  church-gwaine,"  he  said,  on  a  Sunday 
morning  when  he  and  his  elder  niece  had  driven 
off  to  Sancreed  as  usual,  leaving  Joan  in  the 
orchard;  "she've  larned  to  look  'pon  it  from 
a  Luke  Gosp'ler's  pint  o'  view.  Doan't  you 
fret,  Polly.  Let  her  bide.  'Twill  come  o'  itself 
bimebye  wan  o'  these  Sundays.  Poor  tiby  lamb ! 
Christ's  a  watchin'  of  her,  Polly.  An'  if  this 
here  gen'leman,  by  the  name  o'  Mister  Jan, 
doan't  come — " 

"You  make  me  daft!"  she  interrupted,  with 
impatience.  "D'you  mean  as  you  ever  thot  he 
would?" 

"I  hopes.  Theer's  sich  a  'mazin'  deal  o'  good 
in  human  nature.  Mayhap  he'm  wraslin'  wi' 
his  sawl  to  this  hour.  An'  the  Lard  do  allus 
fight  'pon  the  side  o'  conscience.  Iss  fay !  Some 
'ow  I  do  think  as  he'll  come." 

Mary  said  no  more.  She  was  quite  positive 
that  her  cousin  and  her  uncle  were  alike  mis- 
taken; but  she  saw  that,  until  the  hard  truth 
forced  itself  upon  Joan,  the  girl  would  go  her 
present  way.  It  was  not  that  Joan  lacked  good- 
ness and  sweetness,  but,  in  Mary's  opinion,  she 
took  an  obstinate  and  wrong-headed  course  upon 
the  one  vital  subject  of  her  own  salvation.  Mary 
fought  with  herself  to  love  Joan,  and  the  battle 
now  was  only  hard  when  Joe  Noy  came  within 
the  scope  of  her  thoughts.  She  banished  him  as 


LYING   PROPHET!?,  277 

much  as  she  could,  but  it  never  grew  easy,  and 
the  complex  problems  bred  of  reflections  on  this 
theme  maddened  her.  For  she  had  always  loved 
him,  and  that  affection,  thrust  away  as  deadly 
sin,  when  he  left  her  for  another,  could  not  be 
wholly  strangled  now. 

Time  hung  heavily  and  more  heavily  with 
Joan  at  Drift.  A  fortnight  passed;  but  the 
hope  of  the  ignorant  and  trustful  dies  very  hard 
and  the  faith  which  is  bred  of  absolute  love  has 
a  hundred  lives.  The  girl  walked  into  Penzance 
every  second  day,  and  hope  blazed  brightly  on 
the  road  to  the  post-office,  then  sank  a  little 
deeper  into  the  hidden  places  of  her  heart  as  she 
plodded  empty-handed  back  to  Drift. 

Slowly,  and  so  gradually  that  she  herself  knew 
it  not,  her  thoughts  grew  something  less  occu- 
pied with  John  Barron,  something  more  con- 
cerned about  herself.  For  the  world  was  full 
of  happy  mothers  now.  One  "Brindle" — a 
knot-cow  of  repute — dropped  a  fine  bull-calf  in 
a  croft  hard  by  the  orchard,  and  Joan  looked 
into  "Brindle's"  solemn  eyes  after  the  event, 
and  learned.  She  marveled  to  see  the  little 
brown  calf  stand  on  his  shaking  legs  within  an 
hour  of  his  birth;  then  his  mother  licked  him 
lovingly,  while  Uncle  Chirgwin  himself  drew 
off  her  "buzzy  milk."  There  was  another 
mother  in  a  disused  pigsty.  There  Joan 
found  a  red  and  white  tortoise-shell  cat  with 
four  blind,  squeaking  atoms  beside  her,  and 
as  the  cat  rolled  over  and  the  atoms  sucked 
life,  Joan  saw  her  shining  eyes,  afore-time  so 


378  LYING    PROPHETS 

bright  and  hard,  full  of  a  new  strange  light, 
like  the  cloud  that  glimmers  over  the  fires  of  an 
opal.  The  cat's  green  orbs  were  full  of  mys- 
tery: of  pain  past,  of  joy  present.  So  again 
Joan  learned.  But  a  black  tragedy  blotted  out 
that  little  happy  family  in  the  pigsty,  and 
Death,  in  the  shape  of  Amos  Bartlett,  Mr. 
Chirgwin's  head  man,  fell  upon  them.  Then 
the  farmer  learned  that  his  niece  could  be  an- 
gry. One  morning  Joan  found  the  mother  cat 
running  wildly  here  and  there,  with  a  world  of 
misery  in  its  cry;  while  a  moment  afterward 
she  came  upon  the  kittens  in  a  duck  pond.  Mr. 
Bartlett  was  present  and  explained. 

"Them  chets  had  to  gaw,  missy.  'Tis  a  auld 
word  an'  it  ban't  wise  to  take  no  count  of  say- 
ings like  that.  'May  chets  bad  luck  begets.' 
You've  heard  tell  o'  that?  Never  let  live  no 
kittens  born  in  May.  They  theer  dead  chets 
corned  May  Day." 

"You'm  a  cruel  devil!"  she  said  hotly ;  "how'd 
you  like  for  your  two  lil  children  to  be  thrawed 
in  the  water,  May  or  no  May?  Look  at  thicky 
cat,  breakin'  her  heart,  poor  twoad!" 

Mr.  Bartlett  was  justly  angry  that  Joan  could 
dare  to  thus  class  his  priceless  red-headed  twins 
with  a  litter  of  dead  kittens,  and  he  said  more 
than  was  wise,  ramming  home  a  truth,  and  that 
coarsely. 

"Theer's  plenty  more  wheer  them  corned  from, 
I  lay.  Nachur's  so  free,  you  see — tu  free  like 
sometimes.  Ban't  no  dearth  o'  chets  or  chil- 
dern  as  I've  heard  on.  They  comes  unaxed,  an* 


LYING   PROPHETS  279 

unwanted  tu.     You  might  a  heard  tell  o'  some 
sich  p'raps?' ' 

She  blushed  and  shook  with  passion  at  this 
sudden  new  aspect  of  affairs.  Here  was  a 
standpoint  from  which  nobody  had  viewed  her 
before.  Worse — far  worse  than  her  father's 
rage  or  Uncle  Chirgwin's  tears  was  this.  Amos 
Bartlett  represented  the  world's  attitude.  The 
world  would  not  be  angry  with  her,  or  cry  for 
her;  it  would  merely  laugh  and  pass  on,  like 
Mr.  Bartlett.  So  Joan  learned  yet  again;  and 
the  new  knowledge  cowed  her  for  full  eight-and- 
forty  hours.  But  the  eyes  of  the  mothers  had 
taught  Joan  something  of  the  secret  of  pain, 
and  a  thread  of  gravity  ran  henceforth  through 
all  thoughts  concerning  tb°>  future.  She  much 
marveled  that  "Mister  Jan"  had  never  touched 
upon  this  leaf  in  the  book.  Beauty  was  what  he 
invariably  talked  about,  and  he  found  beauty 
hidden  in  many  a  strange  matter  too;  but  not 
in  pain.  That  was  because  he  suffered  himself 
sometimes,  Joan  suspected.  And  yet,  to  her, 
pain,  though  she  had  never  felt  it,  seemed  not 
wholly  hideous.  She  surprised  herself  mightily 
by  the  depth  of  her  own  thoughts  now.  She 
seemed  to  stand  upon  the  brink  of  deep  matters 
guessing  dimly  at  things  hidden.  Then  her 
moods  would  break  again  from  the  clouds  to 
brightness.  Hot  sunshine  on  her  cheek  always 
raised  her  young  spirits,  and  her  health, now  excel- 
lent, threw  joy  into  life  despite  the  ever-present 
anxiety.  Then  came  a  meeting  which  roused  in- 
terest and  brought  very  genuine  delight  with  it. 


280  LYING   PROVHET8 

It  happened  upon  a  fine  Sunday  afternoon 
when  Joan  was  walking  through  the  fields  on 
the  farm — those  which  extended  southward — 
that  she  reached  a  stile  where  granite  blocks  lay 
lengthwise,  like  the  rungs  of  a  ladder,  between 
two  uprights.  Here  she  stopped  a  while,  and 
sat  her  down,  and  looked  out  over  the  promise 
of  fine  hay.  The  undulating  green  expanse  was 
studded  with  the  black  knobs  of  ribwort  plantain 
and  gemmed  with  buttercups,  which  here  were 
dotted  like  sparks  of  fire,  here  massed  in  broad 
bunches  and  splashes  of  color.  The  wind  swept 
over  the  field,  and  its  course  was  marked  by 
sudden  flecks  and  ripples  of  transient  sheeny 
light,  paler  and  brighter  than  the  mass  of  the 
herbage.  Then  a  figure  appeared  afar  off,  fol- 
lowing the  course  of  the  footpath  where  it  wound 
through  the  gold  of  the  flowers  and  the  silver  of 
the  bending  grasses.  It  approached,  resolved 
itself  into  a  fisher-boy  and  presently  proved  to  be 
Tom  Tregenza.  Joan  ran  forward  to  meet  him 
as  soon  as  the  short  figure,  with  its  exaggerated 
nautical  roll,  became  known  to  her.  She  kissed 
her  half-brother  warmly,  and  he  hugged  her 
and  showed  great  delight  at  the  meeting,  for  he 
loved  Joan  well. 

"I've  stealed  away,  'cause  I  was  just  burst  in' 
to  get  sight  of  'e  again,  Joan.  Faither's  home 
an'  I  corned  off  for  a  walk,  creepin'  round  here 
an'  hopin'  as  we'd  meet.  'Tis  mighty  wisht  to 
home  now  you'm  gone,  I  can  tell  'e.  I've  got 
a  sore  head  yet  along  o'  you." 

"G'wan,  bwoy!     Why  should  'e?" 


LYING   PROPHETS  281 

"Iss  so.  'Twas  like  this.  When  us  corned 
back  from  sea  wan  mornin'  a  week  arter  you'd 
gone  I  ups  an'  sez,  '  'Tis  'boat  as  lively  as  bad 
feesh  ashore  now  Joan  ban't  here.'  I  dedn' 
knaw  faither  was  in  the  doorway  when  I  said 
it,  'cause  he'd  give  out  you  was  never  to  be 
named  no  more.  But  mother  seed  en  an'  sez 
to  me,  *Shut  your  mouth.'  An',  not  knawin' 
faither  was  be'ind  me,  I  ups  agin  an'  sez,  'Why 
caan't  I,  as  be  her  awn  brother,  see  Joan  any- 
way an'  hear  tell  what  'tis  she've  done?  I  lay 
as  it  ban't  no  mighty  harm  neither,  'cause  Joan's 
true  Tregenza!'  " 

' '  Good  Lard !  An'  faither  heard  'e?' ' 
"Iss,  an'  next  minute  I  knawed  it.  He  blazed 
an'  roared,  an'  corned  ov?r  an'  bummed  my 
head  'pon  the  earhole — a  buster  as  might  'a' 
killed  some  lads.  My  ivers!  I  seed  stars 
'nough  to  fill  a  new  sky,  Joan,  an'  I  went  down 
tail  over  nose.  I  doubt  theer's  nobody  in  New- 
lyn  what  can  hit  like  faither.  But  I  got  up  agin 
an'  sot  mighty  still,  an'  faither  sez,  'She  as  was 
here  ban't  no  Tregenza,  nor  my  darter,  nor 
nothin'  to  none  under  my  hellings*  no  more — 
never  more,  mark  that.'  Then  mother  thrawed 
her  apern  over  her  faace  an'  hollered,  'cause  I'd 
got  such  a  welt,  an'  faither  walked  out  in  the 
garden.  I  was  for  axin'  mother  then,  but 
reckoned  not  for  fear  as  he  might  be  listenin' 
agin.  But  I  knawed  you  was  up  Drift,  'cause 
I  heard  mother  say  that  much;  an'  now  I've  sot 

*  Hellings — Roof. 


282  LYINO    PROPHETS 

eyes  oil  you  agin;  tin'  I  knaw  you'll  tell  me 
what's  wrong  wi'  you ;  an'  if  I  can  do  anything 
for  'e  I  will,  sink  or  swim." 

"Faither's  a  cruel  beast,  an'  he'll  come  to  a 
bad  end,  Tom,  'spite  of  they  Gosp'lere.  He'm 
all  wrong  an'  doan't  knaw  nothin'  'tall  'bout 
God.  I  do  knaw  what  I  kuaw.  Theer's  more  o' 
God  in  that  gert  shine  o'  buttercups  'pon  the 
grass  than  in  all  them  whey-faced  chapel  folks 
put  together." 

"My  stars,  Joan!" 

"  'Tis  truth,  an'  you'll  find  'tis  some  day, 
same  as  what  I  have." 

"I  doan't  see  how  any  lad  be  gwaine  to  make 
heaven  myself,"  said  Tom  gloomily.  "Us  had 
a  mining  cap'n  from  Camborne  preach  this 
marnin',  an',  by  Gollies!  'tweer  like  sit  tin*  tu 
near  a  gert  red'ot  fire.  Her  rubbed  it  in,  I  tell 
'e,  same  as  you  rubs  salt  into  a  hake.  Faither 
said  'twas  braave  talk.  But  you,  Joan,  what's 
wrong  with  'e,  what  have  you  done?" 

*4I  ain't  done  no  wrong,  Tom,  an'  you  can 
take  my  word  for't." 

"Do  'e  reckon  you'm  damned,  like  what 
faither  sez?" 

"Never !  I  doan't  care  a  grain  o'  wheat  what 
faither  sez.  What  I  done  weern't  no  sin,  'cause 
him,  as  be  wiser  an'  cleverer  an*  better  every 
way  than  any  man  in  Cam  wall,  said  'tweern't; 
an*  he  knawed.  I've  heard  wise  things  said,  an* 
I've  minded  some  an'  forgot  others.  None  can 
damn  folks  but  God,  when  all's  done,  an'  He's 
the  last  as  would;  for  God  do  love  even  the 


LYING   PROPHETS  283 

creeping,  gashly  worms  under  a  turned  stone  tu 
well  to  damn  'em.  Much  more  humans.  I  be 
a  Nature's  cheel  an'  doan't  b'lieve  in  no  devil 
an'  no  hell-fire  'tall." 

"I  wish  I  was  a  Nachur's  cheel  then." 

Joan  flung  down  a  little  bouquet  of  starry 
stitchworts  she  had  gathered  upon  the  way  and 
turned  very  earnestly  to  Tom. 

"You  be,  you  be  a  Nature's  cheel.  Us  all  be, 
but  awnly  a  few  knaws  it." 

Tom  laughed  at  this  idea  mightily. 

"Well,  I'll  slip  back  long,  Joan;  an*  if  I  be 
a  Nachur's  cheel,  I  be ;  but  I  guess  I'll  keep  it 
a  secret.  If  I  tawld  faither  as  I  dedn'  b'lieve 
in  no  auld  devil,  I  guess  he'd  hurry  me  into 
next  world  so's  I  might  see  for  myself  theer  was 
wan." 

They  walked  a  little  way  together.  Then  Tom 
grew  frightened  and  stopped  his  companion. 
"Guess  you'd  best  to  be  turnin'.  Folks  is  'bout 
every  wheer  in  the  fields,  bein'  Sunday,  an'  if  it 
got  back  to  faither  as  I'd  seed  you,  he'd  make 
me  hop." 

"D'you  like  the  sea  still,  Tom?" 

"Doan't  I  just!  Better'n  better;  an'  I  be 
grawin'  smart,  'cause  I  heard  faither  tell  mother 
so  when  I  was  in  the  wash'ouse  an'  they  thot  I 
wasn't.  Faither  said  as  I'd  got  a  hawk's  eye 
for  moorin's  or  what  not.  An'  I  licked  the 
bwoy  on  Pratt's  bwoat  a  fortnight  agone.  A 
lot  o'  men  seed  me  do't.  I  hopes  I'll  hit  so  hard 
as  faither  hisself  wan  day,  when  I'm  grawed. 
Good-by,  sister  Joan.  I'll  see  'e  agin  when  I 


284  LYING   PROPHETS 

can,  an'  bring  up  a  feesh  maybe.  Doan't  say 
nothin*  'bout  me  to  them  at  the  farm,  else  it 
may  get  back.'* 

So  Tom  marched  off,  speculating  as  to  what 
particular  lie  would  best  meet  the  case  if  cross- 
questioning  awaited  him  on  his  return,  and  Joan 
watched  the  thickset  little  figure  very  lovingly 
until  it  was  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

MEADOWSWEETS 

JUNE  came.  The  wall-flowers  were  long 
plucked  or  dead,  the  last  snows  of  apple-blossom 
had  vanished  away,  and  the  fruit  was  setting 
well.  The  woodlice  were  already  ruining  the 
young  nectarines.  "They  spiles  'em  in  the 
growth  an*  scores  'em  wi'  their  wicked  lil  teeth, 
then,  come  August  an'  they  ripens,  they'll  begin 
again.  But  the  peaches  they  won't  touch  now, 
'cause  of  the  fur  'pon  'em.  Awnly  they'll  make 
up  for't  when  the  things  is  ready  for  eatin'." 
So  Uncle  Thomas  explained  the  position  to  Joan. 
He,  good  man,  had  fulfilled  his  promise  to  see 
Michael  Tregenza.  It  happened  that  a  load  of 
oar- weed  was  wanted  on  the  farm,  and  Mr. 
Chirgwin,  instead  of  sending  one  of  the  hands 
with  horse  and  cart  to  Newlyn  according  to  his 
custom  when  seaweed  was  needed,  went  him- 
self. His  elder  niece  expostulated  with  him  and 
explained  that  such  a  trip  would  be  interpreted 
to  mean  straitened  circumstances  on  the  farm ; 
but  her  uncle  was  not  proud,  and  when  he  ex- 

(285) 


286  LYING    PROPHETS 

plained  that  his  real  object  was  an  opportunity 
to  speak  with  Joan's  father  Mary  said  no  more. 
Screwing  courage  to  the  sticking-point,  there- 
fore, the  old  man  went  down  to  Newlyn  on  a 
morning  when  Joan  was  not  by  to  question  his 
movements.  Fortune  favored  him.  Michael 
had  landed  at  daylight  and  was  not  sailing  again 
till  dusk.  The  fisherman  listened  patiently,  but 
Mr.  Chirgwin's  inconsequent  and  sentimental 
conversation  sounded  as  tinkling  brass  upon  his 
ear.  Both  argued  the  question  upon  religious 
grounds,  but  from  an  entirely  different  stand- 
point. Michael  was  not  at  the  trouble  to  talk 
much,  for  his  visitor  seemed  scarce  worthy  of 
powder  and  shot.  He  explained  that  he  deemed 
it  damnation  to  hold  unnecessary  converse  with 
sinners ;  that,  by  her  act,  Joan  had  raised  eter- 
nal barriers  between  herself  and  those  of  her 
own  home,  and,  indeed,  all  chosen  people;  that 
he  had  walked  in  the  light  from  the  dawn  of  his 
days  until  the  present  time,  and  could  not  im- 
peril the  souls  of  his  wife,  his  son  and  himself 
by  any  further  communion  with  one,  in  his 
judgment,  lost  beyond  faintest  possibility  of  re- 
demption. Uncle  Chirgwin  listened  with  open 
mouth  to  these  sentiments.  He  longed  to  relate 
how  Joan  had  repented  of  her  offense,  how  she 
had  thrown  herself  upon  the  Lord,  and  found 
peace  and  forgiveness.  No  such  thing  could  be 
recorded,  however,  and  he  felt  himself  at  a  dis- 
advantage. He  prayed  for  mercy  on  her  be- 
half, but  mercy  was  a  luxury  Gray  Michael 
deemed  beyond  the  reach  of  man.  He  showed 


LYING   PROPHETS  287 

absolutely  no  emotion  upon  the  subject,  and  his 
chill  unconcern  quenched  the  farmer's  ardor. 
Mr.  Chirgwin  mourned  mightily  that  he  held 
not  a  stronger  case.  Joan  had  tied  his  hands, 
at  any  rate,  for  the  present.  If  she  would  only 
come  round,  accept  the  truth  and  abandon  her 
present  attitude — then  he  knew  that  he  would 
fight  like  a  giant  for  her,  and  that,  with  right 
upon  his  side,  he  would  surely  prevail.  His 
last  words  upon  the  subject  shadowed  this  con- 
viction. 

"Please  God  time  may  soften  'e,  Tregenza; 
an',  maybe,  soften  Joan  tu.  Her  heart's  warm 
yet,  an'  the  truth  will  find  its  plaace  theer  in 
the  Lard's  awn  time;  but  you — I  doubt  'tedn' 
in  you  to  change." 

"Never,  till  wrong  be  right." 

"You  makes  me  sorry  for  'e,  Tregenza." 

"Weep  for  yourself,  Thomas  Chirgwin. 
You'm  that  contented,  an'  the  contented  sawl 
be  allus  farthest  from  God  if  you  awnly  knawed 
it.  Wheer's  your  fear  an'  tremblin'  too?  I've 
never  seed  'e  afeared  or  shaken  'fore  the  thrawn 
o'  the  Most  High  in  your  life.  But  I  'sure  'e, 
thee'll  come  to  it." 

"An'  you  say  that!  You'm  'mazin'  blind, 
Tregenza,  for  all  you  walk  in  the  Light.  The 
Light's  dazed  'e,  I'm  thinkin',  same  as  birds  a 
breakin'  theer  wings  'gainst  lighthouse  glasses. 
You  sez  you  be  a  worm  twenty  times  a  day,  an' 
yet  you'm  proud  enough  for  Satan  hisself  purty 
nigh.  If  you'm  a  worm,  why  doan't  'e  act  like 
a  worm  an'  be  humble-minded?  'Tis  the  hi 


288  LYING    PROPHETS 

childern  gets  into  heaven.  You'm  stiff-necked, 
Michael  Tregenza.  I  sez  it  respectful  an'  in 
sorrer;  but  'tis  true." 

"I  hope  the  Lard  won't  lay  thy  sin  to  thy 
charge,  my  poor  sawl,"  answered  the  fisherman 
with  perfect  indifference.  "You — you  dares  to 
speak  agin  me !  I  wish  I  could  give  'e  a  hand 
an'  drag  'e  a  lil  higher  up  the  ladder  o'  right- 
eousness, Chirgwin;  but  you'm  o'  them  as 
caan't  dance  or  else  won't,  not  if  God 
A'mighty's  Self  piped  to  'e.  Go  your  ways, 
an'  knaw  you'm  in  the  prayers  of  a  man  whose 
prayers  be  heard." 

"Then  pray  for  Joan.  If  you'm  so  cocksure 
you  gets  a  hearin'  'fore  us  church  folks,  'tis 
your  fust  duty  to  plead  for  her." 

"It  was,"  he  said.  "Now  it  is  too  late.  I've 
sweated  for  her,  an'  wrastled  wi'  principalities 
an'  powers  for  her,  an'  filled  the  nigjit  watches 
by  sea  an'  shore  wi'  gert  agonies  o'  prayer  for 
her.  But  'tweern't  to  be.  Her  name's  writ  in- 
the  big  Book  o'  Death,  not  the  small  Book  o' 
Life.  David  prayed  hard  till  that  cheel,  got 
wrong  side  the  blanket,  died.  Then  he  washed 
his  face  an'  ate  his  meat.  'Twas  like  that  wi' 
me.  Joan's  dead  now.  Let  the  dead  bury  theer 
dead." 

"  Tia  awful  to  hear  'e,  Tregenza." 

"The  truth's  a  awful  thing,  Chirgwin,  but  a 
lie  is  awfuler  still.  'Tis  the  common  fate  to  be 
loHt.  You  an'  sich  as  you  caan't  grasp  the  truth 
'bout  that.  Heaven's  no  need  to  be  a  big 
plaace — theer  'edn'  gwaine  to  be  no  crowdin* 


LYING   PROPHETS  289 

5 

theer.  'Tis  hell  as'll  fill  space  wi*  its  roomi- 
ness." 

"I  be  gwaine,"  answered  Mr.  Chirgwin. 
"Us  have  talked  three  hour  by  the  clock,  an'  us 
ain't  gotten  wan  thot  in  common.  I  trusts  in 
Christ;  you  trusts  in  yourself.  Time'll  shaw 
which  was  right.  You  damn  the  world;  I 
wouldn't  damn  a  dew-snail.*  I  awnly  sez 
again,  '  May  you  live  to  see  all  the  pints  you'm 
wrong.'  An'  if  you  do,  'twill  be  a  tidy  big 
prospect." 

They  exchanged  some  further  remarks  in  a 
similar  strain.  Then  Tom  informed  Uncle 
Chirgwin  that  his  cart  with  a  full  load  of  oar- 
weed  was  waiting  at  the  door.  Whereupon  the 
old  man  got  his  hat,  loaded  his  pipe,  wished 
Thomasin  good- by,  and  drove  sorrowfully  away. 
Mrs.  Tregenza  had  secretly  inquired  after  Joan's 
health  and  wealth.  That  the  first  was  excellent, 
the  second  carefully  put  away  in  the  lawyer's 
hands,  caused  her  satisfaction.  She  told  Mr. 
Chirgwin  to  make  Joan  write  out  a  will. 

* '  You  never  knaws, ' '  she  said.  ' '  God  keep  the 
gal,  but  they  do  die  now  an'  agin.  'Tweer  bet- 
ter she  wrote  about  the  money  'cordin'  to  a 
lawyer's  way.  And,  say,  for  the  Lard's  love, 
not  to  leave  it  to  Michael.  So  well  light  a  fire 
wi'  it  as  that.  He  bawled  out  as  the  money  had 
lit  a  fire  a'ready,  when  I  touched  'pon  it  to  en — 
a  fire  as  was  gwaine  to  burn  through  eternity ; 
but  Michael's  not  like  a  human.  His  ideas  'pon 

*  Dew-snail— A.  slug. 


290  LYING   PROPHETS 

affairs  is  all  pure  Bible.  You  an*  me  caan't 
grasp  hold  o'  all  he  says.  An'  the  money's 
done  no  wrong.  So  you'll  drop  in  Joan's  ear  as 
it  might  be  worldly-wise  to  save  trouble  by  say- 
in'  what  should  be  done  if  anything  ill  failed 
'pon  her — eh?" 

Uncle  Chirgwin  promised  that  he  would  do  so, 
and  Mrs.  Tregenza  felt  a  weight  off  her  mind 
which  had  distressed  it  for  some  while.  She 
was  thinking  of  Tom,  of  course.  She  knew 
that  Joan  loved  him,  and  though  the  prospect 
of  his  ever  coming  by  a  penny  of  the  money 
appeared  slender,  yet  to  think  that  be  might  be 
in  a  will,  named  for  hundreds  of  pounds,  was  a 
shadowy  sort  of  joy  to  her. 

That  night  Joan's  uncle  told  the  girl  of  his 
afternoon's  work,  and  she  expressed  some  sor- 
row that  he  should  have  thus  exerted  himself  on 
her  behalf. 

"Faither's  dirt  beside  the  likes  of  you,"  she 
said.  "  'Twas  wastin'  good  time  to  talk  to  en, 
an'  I  wouldn't  go  back  to  Newlyn,  you  mind,  if 
he  was  to  ax  me  'pon  his  knees.  I'm  a  poor 
fool  of  a  gal,  but  I  knaws  enough  to  laugh  at 
the  ignorance  o'  faither  an'  that  fiddle-faaced 
crowd  to  the  Luke  Gospel  Chapel." 

"Doan't  'e  be  bitter,  Joan.  Us  all  makes 
mistakes  an'  bad's  the  best  o'  human  creatures. 
Your  faither  will  chaange,  sure  as  I'm  a  livin' 
man,  some  day.  God  ban't  gwaine  to  let  en 
gaw  down  to's  graave  wi'  sich  a  'mazin'  num- 
ber o'  wrong  opinions.  Else  think  o'  the  wukin' 
t'other  side!  Iss,  it  caan't  be.  Why,  as  'tis,  if 


LYING   PROPHETS  291 

he  went  dead  sudden,  he'd  gaw  marchin'  into 
heaven  as  bold  as  brass,  an'  bang  up  to  the 
right  hand  o'  the  thrawne !  Theer's  a  situation 
for  a  body!  An'  the  awk'ardness  o'  havin'  to 
step  forrard  an'  tell  en !  No,  no,  the  man'll  be 
humbled  sure  'fore  his  journey's  end.  Theer's 
Everlasting  eyes  'pon  en,  think  as  you  may." 

"I  never  think  at  all  about  him,"  declared 
Joan,  "an'  I  ban't  gwaine  to.  He  won't 
chaange,  an'  I  never  wants  en  to.  I've  got  you 
to  love  me,  an'  to  love;  an'  I'm — I'm  waitin' 
for  wan  as  be  gawld  to  faither's  dross." 

She  sighed  as  she  spoke. 

"Waitin'  for  en  still?" 

"Ay,  for  Mister  Jan.  It  caan't  be  no  gert 
length  o'  time  now.  I  s'pose  days  go  quicker 
up  Lunnon  town  than  wi'  us.:' 

"Joan,  my  dovey,  'tis  idle.  Even  I  sees  it 
now.  I  did  think  wi'  you  fust  as  he  was  a 
true  man.  I  caan't  no  more.  I  wish  I 
could." 

A  month  before  Joan  would  have  flashed  into 
anger  at  such  a  speech  as  this,  but  now  she  did 
not  answer.  Young  love  is  fertile  in  imagina- 
tion. She  had  found  a  thousand  glories  in  John 
Barron,  and,  when  he  left  her,  had  woven  a 
thousand  explanations  for  his  delayed  return. 
Now  invention  grew  dull;  enthusiasm  waned; 
her  confidence  was  shaken,  though  she  denied 
the  fact  even  to  herself  as  a  sort  of  treachery. 
But  there  is  no  standing  still  in  time.  The  re- 
morseless fact  of  his  non-return  extended  over 
weeks  and  months. 


292  LYING    PROPHETS 

Mr.  Chirgwin  saw  her  silence,  noted  the  little 
quiver  of  her  mouth  as  he  declared  his  own  loss 
of  faith,  stroked  the  hand  she  thrust  dumbly 
into  his  and  felt  her  silence  hurt  his  heart. 

Presently  Joan  spoke. 

"I've  got  none  to  b'lieve  in  en  no  more  then 
— not  wan  now,  not  even  you.  Whiles  you 
stuck  up  for  en  I  felt  braave  'bout  his  comin' ; 
now — now  Mister  Jan  have  awnly  got  me  to  say 
a  word  for  en.  An'  you  doan't  think  he'm  a 
true  man  no  more  then,  uncle?" 

"Lassie,  I  wish  to  God  as  I  did.  Time's  time. 
Why  ban't  he  here?" 

"I  doan't  dare  think  this  is  the  end.  I'm 
feared  to  look  forrard  now.  If  it  do  wance 
come  'pon  me  as  he've  gone  'twill  drive  me 
mad,  I  knaws." 

"No,  never,  not  if  you'd  awnly  turn  your 
faace  the  right  way.  Theer's  oceans  o'  com- 
fort an'  love  waitin'  for  'e,  gal.  You  did  belong 
to  a  hard  world,  as  I  knaws  who  have  just  corned 
from  speech  wi'  your  faither;  but  'twas  a  world 
o'  clean  eatin'  an'  dressin'  an'  livin' — a  God- 
fearin'  world  leadin'  up'ards  on  a  narrer,  ugly 
road,  but  a  safe  road,  I  s'pose.  An'  you  left 
it.  You'll  say  I  be  harsh,  but  my  heart  do  bleed 
for  'e,  Joan.  If  you'd  awnly  drop  this  talk 
'bout  Nature,  as  none  of  us  understands,  an' 
turn  to  the  livin'  Christ,  as  all  can  understand. 
That's  wheer  rest  lies  for  'e,  nowheers  else. 
You'm  like  Eve  in  the  garden.  She  waa  kindid- 
dlod  an'  did  eat  an'  lost  eternal  life  an'  had  to 
quit  Edeu.  An'  'tis  forbidden  fruit  as  you've 


LYING    PROPHETS  293 

ate,  not  knawin'  'twas  sich.  Nature  doan't 
label  her  pisins,  worse  luck." 

"Eve?    No,  I  ban'tno  Eve.     She  had  Adam." 

There  was  a  world  of  sorrow  in  the  words  and 
the  hopeless  ring  in  them  startled  Uncle  Chirg- 
win,  for  it  denoted  greater  changes  in  the  girl's 
mind  than  he  thought  existed.  She  seemed 
nearer  to  the  truth.  It  cut  his  heart  to  see 
her  suffering,  but  he  thanked  Heaven  that  the 
inevitable  knowledge  was  coming,  and  prayed 
it  might  be  the  first  step  toward  peace.  He  was 
silent  with  his  thoughts,  and  Joan  spoke  again, 
repeating  her  last  words. 

"Iss,  Eve  had  Adam  to  put  his  arm  around 
her  an'  kiss  her  wet  eyes.  He  were  more  to  her 
than  what  the  garden  was,  I'll  lay,  or  God 
either.  That's  the  bitter  black  God  o'  my 
faither.  What  for  did  He  let  the  snake  in  the 
garden  'tall  if  He  really  loved  them  fust  poor 
fools?  Why  dedn'  He  put  they  flamin'  angels 
theer  sooner.  'Twas  the  snake  they  should 
have  watched  an'  kep'  out." 

Uncle  Chirgwin  looked  at  her  with  round 
terrified  eyes.  She  had  never  echoed  Barren's 
sentiments  to  such  a  horrified  listener. 

"Doan't,  for  pity's  sake,  Joan!  The  wicked- 
ness of  it!  Him  as  taught  you  to  think  such 
frightful  thoughts  tried  to  ruin  your  sawl  so 
well  as  your  body.  Oh,  if  you'd  awnly  up  an' 
say,  'That  man  was  wrong  an'  I'll  forget  en  an' 
turn  to  the  Saviour.'  " 

"You  caan't  understan'.  I  do  put  ugly  bits 
o'  thot  afore  'e,  but  if  you'd  heard  him  as  opened 


294  LYING    PROPHETS 

my  eyes,  you'd  knaw  'tedn'  ugly  taken  alto- 
gether. I  knaws  BO  much,  hut  caan't  speak  it 
out.  Us  done  no  sin,  an*  I  han't  shamed  to  look 
the  SUB  in  the  faace,  nor  you.  An'  he  will  come 
—he  will — if  theer's  a  kind  God  in  heaven  he'll 
come  back  to  me.  If  'e  doan't,  then  I'll  say  that 
faither's  God's  the  right  wan." 

"Doan't  'e  put  on  a  bold  front,  Joan  gal. 
Theer's  things  tu  deep  for  the  likes  o'  us.  You 
ban't  prayin'  right,  I  reckon.  Theer's  a  voice 
hid  in  you.  Listen  to  that.  Nature's  spawk  to 
'e  an'  now  er's  dumb.  Listen  to  t'other,  lassie. 
Nature  do  guide  beasts  an'  birds  an'  the  poor 
herbs  o'  the  field ;  but  you — you  listen  to  t'other. 
You'll  never  be  happy  no  more  till  you  awns 
'twas  a  sad  mistake  an'  do  ax  in  the  right  plaace 
for  pardon." 

"I  want  no  pardon,"  she  said.  "I  have  done 
no  wrong,  I  tell  'e.  Wheer's  justice  to?  'Cause 
the  man  do  bide  away,  I  be  wicked ;  if  he  corned 
back  to-morrer  an'  married  me — what  then?  I 
be  sinless  in  the  matter  of  it,  an'  Nature  do  knaw 
it,  an'  God  do  knaw  it." 

But  her  breast  heaved  and  her  eyes  were  wet 
with  unshed  tears.  Uncle  Chirgwin,  her  soli- 
tary trust  and  stand-by,  had  drifted  away  too. 
His  hope  was  dead  and  she  could  not  revive  it. 
He  had  never  spoken  so  strongly  before,  but  now 
he  was  taking  up  Mary's  line  of  action  and  had 
ranged  himself  against  her.  It  almost  seenn-d 
to  Joan  that  he  reflected  in  a  meek,  diluted  fash- 
ion, as  the  moon  turns  the  sun's  golden  fire  to 
silver,  something  of  wluit  he  must  have  heard 


LYING   PROPHETS  295 

that  afternoon  from  her  father.  This  defection 
acted  definitely  on  the  girl's  temperament.  She 
fought  fear,  hardened  her  heart  against  doubt, 
cast  suspicion  far  away  as  treason  to  "Mister 
Jan"  and  gave  to  hope  a  new  lease  of  life.  She 
would  be  patient  for  his  sake,  she  would  trust  in 
him  still. 

There  was  something  grand  in  the  loneliness, 
she  told  herself.  He  would  know  perhaps  one 
day  of  her  great  patient  faith  and  love.  And 
the  trial  would  make  her  brain  and  heart  bigger 
and  better  fit  her  for  the  position  of  wife  to  him. 
The  struggle  was  fought  by  her  with  that  cour- 
age which  lies  beyond  man's  comprehension. 
She  looked  at  the  world  with  bright  eyes  when 
there  was  necessity  for  facing  it ;  she  exhausted 
her  ingenuity  in  scheme's  for  communicating 
with  John  Barron.  If  he  only  knew !  She  felt 
that  even  had  change  darkened  his  affection  for 
her,  yet,  most  surely,  the  thought  of  the  baby 
must  tempt  him  back  again.  Thus,  with  sus- 
tained bravery  and  ignorance,  she  left  her  hand 
in  Nature's,  and  her  faith,  rising  gloriously 
above  the  doubt  of  the  time,  trusted  that  ma- 
jestic heathen  goddess  as  a  little  child  trusts  its 
mother. 

Fate  played  another  prank  upon  her  not  long 
afterward  and  thrust  into  her  hands  a  possible 
means  of  access  to  John  Barron.  A  favorite  re- 
sort of  Joan's  was  the  brook  which  ran  down 
the  valley  beneath  Drift  and  Sancreed.  The 
little  stream  wound  through  a  fair  coomb  be- 
tween orchards,  meadows,  wastes  of  fern  and 


296  LYING    PROPHETS 

heather.  At  this  season  of  the  year  the  valley 
was  very  lonely,  and  a  certain  spot  beside  the 
stream  often  tempted  Joan  by  reason  of  its  com- 
fort and  its  peace.  From  here,  sitting  on  a 
granite  bowlder  clothed  in  soft  green  mosses 
and  having  a  shape  into  which  human  limbs 
might  fit  easily,  the  girl  could  see  much  that 
was  fair.  The  meadows  were  all  sprinkled  with 
the  silver-mauve  of  cuckoo-flowers  —  Shake- 
speare's "lady's  smock";  the  hills  sloped  up- 
ward under  oaken  saplings  as  yet  too  young  for 
the  stripping ;  the  valley  stretched  winding  land- 
ward beneath  Sancreed.  Above  and  far  away 
stretched  the  Cornish  moors  dotted  with  man's 
mining  enterprises,  chiefly  deserted.  Ding-Dong 
raised  its  gaunt  engine  stack  and,  distant  though 
it  was,  Joan's  sharp  eyes  could  see  the  rusty 
arm  of  iron  stretching  forth  from  the  brick- 
work, motionless,  not  worth  the  removing. 
Close  at  hand,  where  the  stream  wandered 
babbling  at  her  feet,  the  whole  glory  of  spring 
shone  on  blossoms  and  grasses  where  the  world 
of  the  stream-side  sent  forth  a  warm,  living 
smell.  The  wildness  of  the  upland  moors 
stretched  down  into  the  valley  below  them. 
There  glimmered  blue-green  patches  of  brack- 
en, speckled  with  the  red  and  white  hides 
of  calves  which  fed  and  scampered  dew-lap 
deep;  and  the  fern  was  all  sheened  with  light 
where  the  sunshine  brightened  its  polished 
leaves.  The  stream  wound  through  the  midst, 
bedecked  and  adorned  with  purple  bugle  flow- 
ers, bridged  with  dog-roses  and  honeysuckles,  in 


LYING   PROPHETS  297 

festoons,  in  bunches  and  in  sprays,  crowned  with 
scented  gorse,  fringed  with  yellow  irises  which 
splashed  flaming  reflections  where  the  brook 
widened  and  slowed  into  shallow  little  back- 
waters. Flags  and  cresses  framed  the  margins ; 
meadowsweets  made  the  air  fragrant  above,  and 
granite  bowlders  fretted  the  waters  silver,  their 
foundations  hidden  in  dark  water-weed.  Sun- 
shine danced  on  every  tiny  cascade  and  threw 
stars  and  twinkling  flashes  of  light  upward  from 
the  brown  pools  upon  the  banks.  Everything 
was  upon  a  miniature  scale,  even  to  the  trout 
which  lived  in  the  stream,  flashed  their  dim 
shadows  under  its  waters,  leaped  into  the  air 
after  the  flies,  set  little  clouds  of  sand  shimmer- 
ing as  they  darted  up  and  down  or,  when  sur- 
prised, wriggled  away  into  favorite  holes  and 
hiding  places  beneath  the  banks  and  trailing 
weeds.  Ling  and  wortleberry  too  were  moor- 
land visitors  in  the  valley,  and  the  bog  heather 
already  budded. 

Here  was  one  of  the  many  favorite  resting- 
places  of  Joan,  and  hither  she  came  on  a  rare 
morning  in  mid  June  at  the  wish  of  another 
person. 

Uncle  Chirgwin  had  set  his  niece  a  task,  and 
the  object  of  her  present  visit  was  no  mere  daw- 
dling and  thinking  while  perched  upon  the  gran- 
ite throne  above  the  meadowsweets.  This  fact 
a  basket  and  a  three-pronged  fork  indicated. 
Her  uncle  deemed  himself  an  authority  on  sim- 
ples and  possessed  much  information,  mostly  er- 
roneous, concerning  the  properties  of  wild  herbg 


298  LYING   PROPHETS 

and  flowers.  A  decoction  of  hemp  agrimony  he 
at  all  times  considered  a  most  valuable  bitter 
tonic;  and  of  this  plant  the  curious  flesh -colored 
flowers  on  their  long  green  stems  grew  pretty 
freely  by  the  stream-side  in  the  valley.  The 
time  of  flowering  was  not  yet  come,  but  Joan 
knew  the  dull  leaf  of  the  herb  well  enough  and, 
that  found,  she  could  easily  dig  up  the  root, 
wherein  its  virtue  dwelt.  Bu*>  oefore  starting 
on  her  search,  the  girl  rested  a  while  where  the 
serrated  foliage  and  creamy  blossom  of  the 
meadowsweets  laced  and  fringed  the  granite 
of  her  couch;  and,  as  she  sat  there,  her  eye 
taking  in  the  happy  valley,  her  brain  reading 
into  the  luxuriant  life  of  nature,  some  strange 
new  thoughts  hidden  until  lately,  she  became 
suddenly  conscious  of  a  phenomenon  beyond  her 
power  to  immediately  explain  or  understand.  It 
drove  the  hemp  agrimony  quite  out  of  her  head, 
and,  when  the  mystery  came  to  be  explained,  filled 
Joan's  mind  with  the  memory  of  her  own  sad 
affairs.  First  and  repeatedly  there  glimmered 
a  gossamer  over  the  stream,  falling  into  the  water 
and  as  often  rising  again ;  then  above  the  film 
of  light  flashed  another,  rising  abruptly  golden 
into  the  sunshine.  Not  for  a  moment  or  two 
did  she  discover  the  flashing  thing  was  a  fly- 
rod,  but  presently  the  man  who  held  it  appeared 
below  her  at  a  bend  of  the  streamlet.  He  was 
clad  much  like  the  artists,  and  it  made  the  blood 
flush  hot  to  her  cheek  as  she  thought  he  might 
be  one.  Young  men  sometimes  fished  the  brook 
for  the  fingerling  trout  it  contained.  They  were 


LYING   PROPHETS  299 

small  but  sweet,  and  the  catching  them  with  a 
fly  was  difficult  work  in  a  stream  so  overhung 
with  tangles  of  vine  and  brier,  so  densely  planted 
in  the  wider  reaches  with  water  hemlock  and 
lesser  weeds.  This  fisherman,  at  any  rate, 
found  successful  sport  beyond  his  power  to 
achieve.  He  flogged  away,  but  hung  his  fly 
clear  of  the  stream  at  every  second  cast  and 
deceived  not  the  smallest  troutlet  of  them  all. 
The  young  man,  after  the  manner  of  those 
anglers  classified  as  "chuck  and  chance  it," 
worked  his  clumsy  way  toward  Joan's  chair 
on  the  granite  bowlder.  Motionless  she  sat, 
and  her  drab  attire  and  faded  sun-bonnet  har- 
monized so  well  with  the  tones  around  it — the 
gray  of  the  stones,  the  lights  of  the  river,  the 
masses  of  the  meadowsweet — that  while  noting 
a  broad  and  sparkling  stickle  winding  away  be- 
neath her,  the  angler  missed  the  girl  herself. 
This  stickle  spread,  with  an  oily  tremor  and 
white  undercurrent  full  of  air  pearls,  from  a 
waterfall  where  the  foot  of  Joan's  throne  fretted 
the  stream.  Below  it  the  waters  slowed  and  ran 
smoothly  into  dark  brown  shadows,  being  here 
marked  by  the  wrinkled  lines  of  their  currents 
and  splashed  with  the  sky's  reflected  blue.  An 
ideal  spot  for  a  trout  it  doubtless  was,  and  the 
approaching  sportsman  exercised  unusual  care 
in  his  approach,  crouching  along  the  bank  and 
finally  creeping  bent  double  within  casting  dis- 
tance. Then,  as  he  freed  his  fly,  he  saw  Joan, 
like  a  queen  of  the  pool  reigning  motionless  and 
silent.  She  moved  and  no  fish  was  likely  to  rise 


300  LYING    PROPHETS 

after  within  the  visual  radius  of  her  sudden  ac- 
tioii.  Thereupon  the  angler  in  the  man  cursed ; 
the  artist  in  him  drew  a  short,  sharp  breath. 
He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  looked  again  upon 
a  beautiful  picture.  The  plump,  baby  freshness 
of  Joan's  face  had  vanished  indeed,  and  there 
was  that  in  the  slightly  anxious  expression  and 
questioning  look  of  her  blue  eyes  that  had  told 
any  medical  man  he  stood  before  a  future  mother ; 
but,  in  her  seated  position,  no  tangible  sugges- 
tion of  a  hidden  life  was  thrust  upon  the  specta- 
tor's view.  He  only  saw  a  wondrously  pretty 
woman  in  a  charming  attitude,  amid  objects 
which  enhanced  her  beauty  by  their  own.  She 
seemed  a  trifle  pale  for  a  cottage  girl,  but  her 
mouth  was  scarlet  and  dewy  as  ripe  wood-straw- 
berries, her  eyes  were  just  of  that  color  where 
the  blue  sky  above  was  reflected  and  changed 
to  a  darker  shade  by  the  pools  of  the  brook. 
She  sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap  and 
looked  straight  at  the  sportsman  with  a  frank 
interest  which  surprised  him.  He  was  a  modest 
lad,  but  the  sudden  presentment  of  an  object  so 
lovely  woke  his  pluck  and  he  fished  ostenta- 
tiously to  Joan's  very  feet,  suspecting  that  the 
absurdity  of  the  action  would  not  be  apparent 
to  her.  She  watched  the  morsel  of  feather  and 
fur  dragged  across  the  water  after  the  fantastic 
fashion  of  the  '  'chuck  and  chancer,"  and  he, 
when  her  eyes  were  on  the  water,  kept  his  own 
fast  upon  her  face.  Both  man  and  woman  were 
profoundly  anxious  each  to  hear  the  other'* 
voice,  but  neither  felt  brave  enough  to  speak 


LYING   PROPHETS  301 

first.  Then  the  artist's  ingenuity  found  a 
means,  and  Joan  presently  saw  his  fly  stick 
fast  upon  the  side  of  the  stream  where  she 
sat.  The  thing  was  caught  at  the  seed-head 
of  a  rush  within  reach  of  Joan's  hand,  and  while 
this  incident  appeared  absolutely  accidental,  yet 
it  was  not  so,  for  the  artist  had  long  been  en- 
deavoring to  get  fast  somewhere  hard  by  Joan. 
Now,  finding  his  maneuver  accomplished,  he 
made  but  the  feeblest  efforts  to  loosen  the  fly, 
then  raised  his  hat  and  accosted  Joan. 

"Might  I  trouble  you  to  set  my  line  clear? 
Ashamed  to  ask  such  a  thing,  but  it  would  be 
awfully  kind.  Oh,  thank  you,  '  thank  you. 
Take  care  of  your  fingers!  The  hook  is  very 
sharp." 

Joan  got  the  fly  free  in  a  moment,  and  then, 
to  Harry  Murdoch's  gratification,  addressed  him. 
The  young  fellow  was  Edmund  Murdoch's  cousin, 
and  at  present  dwelt  in  Newlyn  with  the  elder  ar- 
tist already  mentioned  as  John  Barren's  friend. 

"May  I  make  so  bold  as  to  ax  if  you  do  knaw 
a  paintin'  gen'leman  by  name  o' — o'  Mister  Jan? 
Leastways,  that's  wan  on's  names,  but  I  never 
can  call  home  the  other,  though  he  tawld  me 
wance.  He  was  here  last  early  spring-time,  an' 
painted  a  gert  picture  of  me  up  'pon  top  the  hill 
they  calls  Gorse  Point." 

"Lucky  devil,"  thought  the  artist;  but  though 
he  knew  something  of  Barren  and  his  work  and 
had  heard  that  Barren  painted  when  at  Newlyn, 
he  did  not  associate  these  facts  with  the  girl  be- 
fore him. 


302  LYING   PROPHETS 

"He'm  in  Lunnon,  so  far's  I  knaw,"  she  con- 
tinued. 

Harry  Murdoch  had  to  look  hard  at  Joan  be- 
fore answering,  and  he  delayed  a  while  with 
an  expression  of  deep  thought  upon  his  face. 
At  length  he  spoke. 

"No,  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  heard  of  him 
or  the  picture.  But  perhaps  some  of  the  men 
in  Newlyn  will  know.  He  was  lucky  to  get  you 
to  paint.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  try." 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"No,  no.  He  done  it  'cause — 'cause  he  just 
wanted  a  livin'  thing  to  fill  up  a  bit  o'  his  can- 
vas. 'Tweern't  for  shaw  or  for  folks  to  see. 
He  done  it  for  pleasure.  An*  I  wants  to  knaw 
wheer  he  lives  'cause  he  might  think  I  be  in 
Newlyn  still,  but  I  ban't.  I'm  livin'  up  Drift 
along  wi'  Mr.  Chirgwin.  An'  I  wish  he  could 
knaw  it." 

"He  was  called  'Mister  John"?  Well,  I'll  see 
what  I  can  do  to  find  out  anything  about  him. 
And  your  name?" 

"Joan  Tregenza.  If  you'll  be  so  good  as  to 
put  a  question  round  'mongst  the  painting  gen'le- 
men,  I'd  thank  'e  kindly." 

"Then  I  certainly  will.  And  on  Saturday 
next  I'll  come  here  again  to  tell  you  if  I  have 
heard  anything.  "Will  you  come?" 

"Iss  fay,  an'  thank  you,  sir." 

So  he  passed  slowly  forward,  and  she  sat  a 
full  hour  after  he  had  left  her  building  new 
cantles  on  the  old  crumbling  foundations.  It 
was  even  in  her  mind  to  pray,  to  pray  with  her 


LYING   PROPHETS  303 

whole  heart  and  soul ;  but  chaos  had  settled  like 
a  storm  upon  her  beliefs.  She  did  not  know 
where  to  pray  to  now ;  yet  to-day  Hope  once 
more  glimmered  like  a  lighthouse  lamp  through 
the  dreary  darkness.  So  she  turned  her  eyes 
to  that  radiance  and  waited  for  next  Saturday 
to  come. 

Then  she  set  about  grubbing  up  roots  of  hemp 
agrimony  where  they  grew.  She  was  almost 
happy  and  whistled  gently  to  herself  as  she  filled 
her  little  basket. 

That  night  Edmund  Murdoch  heard  his  cousin's 
story  and  explained  that  "Mister  Jan"  was  doubt- 
less John  Barren. 

"I'm  owing  the  beggar  a  letter;  I'll  write  to- 
morrow." 

"Was  it  a  good  picture?" 

"I  should  say  that  few  better  ever  came  out 
of  Newlyn.  Perhaps  none  so  good.  Is  the 
model  as  pretty  as  eyer?" 

Young  Harry  raved  of  the  vision  that  Joan 
had  presented  among  the  meadowsweets. 

"Well,  I  suppose  he  wouldn't  mind  her  know- 
ing where  he  lives;  but  he's  such  a  queer  devil 
that  I'll  write  and  ask  him  first.  We  shall  hear 
in  a  couple  of  days ;  I  can  tell  him  her  address, 
at  any  rate ;  then  he  may  write  direct  to  her,  if 
he  cares  to." 


304  LYING    PROPHETS 


CHAPTER  TEN 

TWO  LETTERS 

FOUR  days  elapsed,  and  then  Edmund  Mur- 
dock  received  an  answer  to  his  letter.  He  had 
written  at  length  upon  various  affairs  and  his 
friend  did  no  less. 

"  No.  6  Melbury  Gardens,  8.  W. 
"  June  8,  189—. 

"DEAR  MURDOCH — Your  long  screed  gave 
me  some  pleasure  and  killed  an  hour.  You 
relate  the  even  course  of  your  days  since  my 
departure  from  Cornwall,  and  I  envy  the  good 
health  and  happy  contentment  of  mind  which 
your  note  indicates.  I  gained  no  slight  benefit 
from  my  visit  to  the  West  Country,  and  it  had 
doubtless  carried  me  bravely  through  this  sum- 
mer but  for  an  unfortunate  event.  A  sharp 
cold,  which  settled  on  my  chest,  has  laid  me 
low  for  some  length  of  time,  though  I  am  now 
as  well  again  as  I  shall  ever  be.  So  much  for 
facing  the  night  air  in  evening  dress.  Nature 
has  no  patience  with  our  idiotic  conventions, 
and  hates  alike  man's  shirt-front  and  woman's 
bare  bosom  when  displayed,  as  is  our  imbecile 
custom,  at  the  most  dangerous  hours  in  the 
twenty-four.  My  doctors  are  for  sending  me 


LYING   PROPHETS  305 

away,  and  I  shall  probably  follow  their  advice 
presently.  But  the  end  is  not  very  far  off. 

"I  rejoice  that  you  have  sucked  in  something 
of  my  spirit  and  are  trying  to  get  at  the  heart  of 
rocks  and  sea  before  you  paint  them.  Men 
waste  so  much  time  poking  about  in  art  gal- 
leries, like  the  blind  moles  they  mostly  are,  and 
forget  that  Nature's  art  gallery  is  open  every 
day  at  sunrise.  Dwell  much  in  the  air,  glean 
the  secrets  of  dawns,  listen  when  the  white  rain 
whispers  over  woodland,  translate  the  tinkle  of 
summer  seas  where  they  kiss  your  rocky  shores ; 
get  behind  the  sunset;  think  not  of  what  colors 
you  will  mix  when  you  try  to  paint  it,  but  let 
the  pageant  sink  into  your  soul  like  a  song.  Do 
not  drag  your  art  everywhere.  Forget  it  some- 
times and  develop  your  individuality .  You 
have  learned  to  draw  tolerably;  now  learn  to 
think.  Believe  me,  the  painting  people  do  not 
think  enough. 

"Truly  I  am  content  to  die  in  the  face  of  the 
folly  I  read  and  see  around  me.  Know  you 
what  certain  obscure  writers  are  now  about  in 
magazines?  They  are  vindicating  the  cosmic 
forces,  whitewashing  Mother  Nature  after 
Huxley's  Romanes  lecture!  He  told  the  truth, 
and  Nature  loved  him  for  it;  but  now  come 
hysterical  religious  ciphers  who  squeak  boldly 
forth  in  print  that  Nature  is  the  mother  of 
altruism,  that  self-sacrifice  is  her  first  law !  One 
genius  observes  that  'tis  their  cruelty  and  self- 
ishness have  arrested  the  progress  of  the  tiger 
and  the  ape !  Poor  Nature !  Never  a  word  of 


306  LYING   PROPHETS 

shotguns  in  all  this  drivel,  of  course.  Cruelty 
and  selfishness!  Qualities  purely  and  solely 
human — qualities  resulting  from  conscious  intel- 
ligence alone.  You  and  I  are  selfish,  not  the 
ape ;  you  and  I  are  cruel,  not  the  tiger.  He  at 
least  learns  Nature's  lessons  and  obeys  her  dic- 
tates; we  never  do  and  never  shall.  A  plague 
upon  these  fools  with  their  theologic  rubbish 
heaps.  They  would  prostitute  the  very  fonts 
of  reason  and  make  Nature's  eternal  circle  fit 
the  little  squares  of  their  own  faiths.  Man !  I 
tell  you  that  the  root  of  human  misery  might  be 
pulled  out  and  destroyed  to-morrow  like  the 
fang  of  a  decayed  tooth  if  only  reason  could  kill 
these  weeds  of  falsehood  which  choke  civiliza- 
tion and  strangle  religion.  But  the  world's 
'doers'  have  all  got  'faith'  (or  pretend  to  it) ;  the 
world's  thinkers  are  mere  shadows  moving  about 
in  the  background  of  active  affairs.  They  only 
write  and  talk.  Action  is  the  sole  way  of  chain- 
ing a  nation's  mind. 

"Your  churchman  is  active  enough,  hence  the 
spread  of  that  poison  which  keeps  human  reason 
stunted,  impotent,  anremic.  Take  Liberty — the 
cursed  ignis  fatuus  our  dear  poets  have  shrieked 
for,  our  preachers  have  prayed  for,  our  patriots 
have  perished  for  through  all  time.  In  pursuit 
of  this  rainbow-gold  more  blood  and  brains  have 
been  wasted  than  would  have  sufficed  to  make  a 
nation.  And  yet  a  breath  from  Reason  blows 
the  thing  to  tatters,  as  an  uprising  wind  annihi- 
lates a  fog.  Freedom  is  an  attril»ut«-  «>f  the  Eter- 
nal, .in.l  rival  i«.n  .-.•inn..)  share  it  with  him,  any 


LYING   PROPHETS  307 

more  than  it  can  share  his  throne  with  him. 
'The  liberty  of  the  subject'!  A  contradiction 
in  terms.  Banisli  this  unutterable  folly  of  free- 
dom, and  control  the  breeding  of  human  flesh  as 
we  control  the  output  of  beef  and  of  mutton. 
Then  the  face  of  the  world  will  alter.  Millions 
of  money  is  annually  spent  in  order  that  mind- 
less humanity,  congenital  lunatics  and  madmen, 
may  be  fed  and  housed  and  kept  alive.  Their 
existences  are  to  themselves  less  pleasurable 
than  that  of  the  beasts,  they  are  a  source  of 
agony  to  those  who  have  borne  them ;  but  they 
live  to  old  age  and  devour  tons  of  good  food, 
while  wholesome  intellects  starve  in  the  gutters 
of  every  big  city.  Banish  this  cant  of  freedom 
then,  I  tell  you.  The  lightning  in  heaven  is  not 
free;  the  stars  are  not  free;  Nature  herself  is 
the  created  slave  of  the  Great  Will — and  we 
prattle  about  liberty.  Let  the  State  look  to  it 
and  practice  these  lessons  Nature  has  taught 
and  still  preaches  patiently  to  deaf  ears.  Let  it 
be  as  penal  to  bring  life  into  the  world  without 
permission  from  authority  as  it  is  to  put  life  out 
of  the  world.  Let  the  begetting  of  paupers  be  a 
crime ;  let  the  health  and  happiness  of  the  com- 
munity rise  higher  than  the  satisfaction  of  indi- 
viduals ;  let  the  self-denial  practiced  by  the  rea- 
sonable few  be  made  a  legal  necessity  to  the 
unreasonable  many.  Let  the  blighted,  the 
malformed,  the  brainless  go  back  to  the  earth 
from  which  they  came.  Let  the  world  of 
humanity  be  cleansed  and  sweetened  and  puri- 
fied as  Nature  cleanses  and  sweetens  and  puri- 


308  LYING   PROPHETS 

fies  her  own  kingdom.  She  removes  her  fail- 
ures; we  put  ours  under  glass  and  treat  them 
like  hothouse  flowers.  That  is  called  humanity ; 
it  is  the  mad  leading  the  mad.  .  .  .  But  why 
waste  your  time?  Nature  will  have  the  last 
word ;  Reason  must  win  in  the  end ;  a  genius, 
at  once  thinker  and  doer,  will  come  along  some 
day  and  put  the  world  right,  at  a  happy  moment 
when  the  din  of  theologists  is  out  of  its  ears.  We 
want  a  new  practical  religion ;  for  Christianity, 
distorted  and  twisted  through  the  centuries  into 
its  present  outworn,  effete,  ignoble  shape,  is  a 
mere  political  force  or  a  money-making  machine, 
according  to  the  genius  of  the  country  which 
professes  it.  The  golden  key  of  the  founder, 
which  is  lost,  may  be  found  again,  but  I  think 
it  never  will  be." 

[Here  the  man  elaborated  his  opinions.  They 
were  like  himself:  a  medley — a  farrago— wherein 
ascerbity,  acuteness,  and  a  mind  naturally  phil- 
osophic were  stranded  in  the  arid  deserts  of  a 
pessimism  bred  partly  from  his  own  decaying 
physical  circumstances  and  partly  from  recogni- 
tion of  his  own  wasted  time.] 

"I  do  not  suppose  that  I  shall  paint  any  more. 
I  had  my  Cornish  picture  brought  from  its  pack- 
ing-case and  framed,  and  supported  on  a  great 
easel  at  the  foot  of  my  in-d  while  I  was  stricken 
down  last  mouth.  Mistress  Joan  eyed  me  curi- 
ously from  under  her  hand,  and  through  the 
night-watches,  while  my  man  snored  in  the  next 


LYING   PROPHETS  309 

chamber  and  I  tossed  with  great  unrest,  the  girl 
seemed  to  live  and  move  and  smile  at  me  under 
the  flicker  of  the  night  lamp.  Everybody  is 
pleased  to  say  that  'Joe's  Ship'  seems  good  to 
them.  I  have  it  now  in  the  studio,  and  con- 
trasted it  yesterday  with  my  bathing  negresses 
from  Tobago.  I  think  I  like  it  better.  It  is 
difficult  to  read  the  soul  in  black  faces,  especially 
when  the  models  are  freezing  to  death  as  mine 
were.  But  there  is  something  near  to  soul  in 
this  painted  Joan — more  I  doubt  than  the  living 
reality  would  be  found  to  possess  to-day.  She 
was  a  good  girl  all  the  same,  and  I  am  gratified 
to  hear  she  did  not  quite  forget  me.  I  have 
written  to  her  at  the  address  you  mention. 
They  pester  me  to  send  the  picture  somewhere, 
and  to  stop  their  importunities— especially  the 
women — I  have  promised  to  let  the  thing  go  to 
the  Institute  in  the  autumn.  I  shall  doubtless 
change  my  mind  before  the  time  comes. 

"My  life  slowly  but  surely  dwindles  to  that 
mere  battle  with  Death  which  your  consumptive 
wages  at  the  finish.  I  fancy  Biskra  will  see  my 
bones  later  in  the  year.  The  R.A.  took  not  less 
than  six  months  off  my  waning  days  this  spring. 
Thank  God  they  hung  Brady  as  he  deserved. 
Twenty  good  works  I  saw — 'the  rest  is  silence.' 
"  Yours,  while  I  remain, 

"JOHN  BARRON." 

It  was  true  that  the  artist  had  written  another 
letter  addressed  to  Joan  Tregenza  at  Drift.  He 
had  written  it  first — written  it  hurriedly,  wildly, 


310  LYING   PROPHETS 

on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  But,  after  the  com- 
pletion of  his  communication  to  Murdoch,  the 
mood  of  the  man  changed.  He  had  coldly  rear1, 
again  the  former  epistle,  and  altered  his  mind 
concerning  it.  Barren  wanted  Joan  back  again 
sometimes,  if  life  dragged  more  than  usual;  but 
pens  and  paper  generally  modified  his  desire 
when  he  got  that  far  toward  calling  her  to  him. 
Her  memory  tickled  him  pleasantly  and  whiled 
away  time.  He  framed  the  various  sketches  he 
had  made  of  her  and  suffered  thought  to  occupy 
itself  with  her  as  with  no  other  woman  who  had 
entered  his  life.  But  the  day  on  which  he  wrote 
to  Murdoch  was  a  good  one  with  him.  He  felt 
stronger  and  better  able  to  suck  pleasure  out  of 
living  than  he  had  for  a  month. 

"When  I  whistle  she  will  come,"  he  thought 
to  himself.  "Perhaps  there  would  be  some 
pleasure  in  taking  her  to  Biskra  presently.  I 
will  wait,  at  any  rate,  until  nearer  the  last 
scene.  She  would  be  pretty  to  look  at  when 
I'm  dying.  Yes,  she  shall  close  my  eyes  some 
day,  if  she  likes.  That's  a  pleasant  thought— 
for  me." 

So  the  letter  to  Murdoch  was  sent  forth,  but 
the  letter  to  Joan,  containing  some  poetic 
thoughts  on  Nature,  a  pathetic  description  of 
Barren's  enfeebled  state,  and  an  appeal  to  her 
to  join  him  that  they  might  part  no  more  on 
this  side  the  grave,  was  torn  up.  He  laughed 
at  the  trouble  he  had  taken  to  print  it  all,  and 
pondered  pleasantly  on  the  picture  which  Mur- 
doch hiul  drawn  of  Joan  ruling  the  kingdom  of 


LYING   PROPHETS  311 

the  meadowsweets,  of  her  eager  question  con- 
cerning "Mister  Jan." 

"Strange,"  he  reflected,  "that  her  mediocre 
intelligence  should  have  clung  to  a  man  so  out- 
wardly mean  as  myself.  If  I  thought  that  she 
had  remembered  half  I  said  when  I  was  with 
her,  or  had  made  a  single  attempt  to  practice 
the  gospel  I  preached  so  finely — damned  if  I 
wouldn't  have  her  back  again  to-morrow  and  be 
proud  of  her  too.  But  it  can't  be.  She  was 
such  an  absolute  fool.  No,  I  much  fear  she  only 
desires  to  find  out  what  has  become  of  the  goose 
who  laid  the  big  golden  egg.  Or  if  she  doesn't, 
perhaps  her  God-fearing  father  and  mother  do." 

Which  opinion  is  not  uninteresting,  for  it  illus- 
trates the  usual  failure  of  materialism  to  dis- 
cover or  gauge  those  mental  possibilities  which 
lie  hidden  within  the  humblest  and  worst 
equipped  intelligences.  John  Barron  was  an 
able  man  in  some  respects,  but  his  knowledge 
of  Joan  Tregenza  had  taught  him  nothing  con- 
cerning her  character  and  its  latent  powers  of 
development. 


312  LYING   PROPHETS 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

DISENCHANTMENT 

WITH  summer,  Nature,  proceeding  on  her 
busy  way,  approached  again  the  annual  phe- 
nomena of  seed-time  and  harvest.  To  Joan, 
as  spring  had  brought  with  it  a  world  of 
mothers,  so  the  subsequent  season  filled  Nature 
with  babies;  and,  in  the  light  of  all  this  new- 
born life,  the  mothers  suffered  a  change.  Now, 
sorrow-guided,  did  Joan  begin  to  read  under  the 
face  of  things,  "to  get  behind  the  sunset,"  as 
Barron  had  said  in  his  letter  to  Murdoch,  to 
realize  a  little  of  the  mystery  hidden  in  green 
leaves  and  swelling  fruits  and  ripening  grain,  to 
observe  at  least  the  presence  of  mystery  though 
she  could  not  translate  more  than  an  occasional 
manifestation  thereof.  She  found  much  matter 
for  wonder  and  for  fear.  Visible  Nature  had 
grown  to  be  a  smiling  curtain  behind  which 
raged  eternal  struggles  for  life.  Every  leaf 
sheltered  a  tragedy,  every  bough  was  a  battle* 
field.  The  awful  frailty  of  all  existence  began 
to  dawn  upon  Joan  Tregenza,  and  the  discovery 
left  her  helpless,  lonely,  longing  for  new  gods. 
She  knew  not  where  to  turn.  Any  brightness 
from  any  source  had  been  welcome  then. 


LYING  PROPHETS  313 

Disenchantment  came  with  the  second  visit  of 
the  artist  to  the  stream.  There,  young  Murdoch 
had  met  her  and  told  her  that  "Mister  Jan"  was 
going  to  write  her  a  letter.  Upon  which  she  had 
sung  glad  songs  in  a  sunlit  world  and  amazed 
Mary  and  Uncle  Chirgwin  alike  by  the  exhibi- 
tion of  a  sudden  and  profound  happiness.  But 
that  longed-for  letter  never  came ;  weeks  passed 
by ;  the  truth  rolled  up  over  her  life  at  last ;  and, 
as  a  world  seen  in  a  blaze  of  sunshine  only  daz- 
zles us  and  conceals  its  facts  under  too  much  light, 
but  reveals  the  same  clear  cut  and  distinct  at 
dawn  or  early  twilight,  so  now  Joan's  eyes,  ob- 
scured no  more  by  the  blinding  promise  of  great 
joy,  began  to  see  her  world  as  it  was,  her  future 
as  it  would  be. 

Strange  thoughts  came  to  her  on  an  evening 
when  she  stood  by  the  door  of  the  kitchen  at 
Drift,  waiting  for  the  cart  to  return  from  market. 
It  was  a  cool,  gray  gloaming,  wreathed  in  di- 
aphanous mists  born  of  past  rain.  These  ren- 
dered every  outline  of  tree  and  building  vague 
and  immense.  Where  Joan  stood,  the  peace 
of  the  time  was  broken  only  by  a  gentle  drip- 
ping from  the  leaves  of  a  great  laurel  by  the 
gate  which  led  from  the  farmyard  to  the  fields. 
Below  it,  moist  ground  was  stamped  with  the 
trident  impress  of  many  fowls'  feet;  and,  now 
and  then,  a  feather  sidled  down  from  the  heart 
of  the  evergreen,  where  poultry,  black  and  white 
and  spangled,  were  settling  to  roost.  A  sub- 
dued clucking  and  fluttering  marked  their  hid- 
den perches;  then  came  showers  of  rain-drops 


3H  LYING   PROPHETS 

from  the  shining  leaves  as  a  bird  mounted  to  a 
higher  branch ;  after  which  silence  fell  again. 

And  Joan  found  all  hope  fairly  dead  at  last. 
There  and  then,  in  the  misty  eveningtide,  the  fact 
fell  on  the  ear  of  her  heart  as  though  one  had 
spoken  it;  and  henceforth  she  dated  disenchant- 
ment from  that  hour.  The  whole  pageant  of 
her  romance,  with  the  knightly  figure  of  the 
painter  that  filled  its  foreground,  shriveled  to 
a  scroll  no  bigger  than  a  curled,  dead  leaf — sere, 
wasted,  ghostly,  and  light  enough  to  be  washed 
away  on  a  tear,  borne  away  upon  a  sigh. 

Then  there  followed  for  her  prodigious  trans- 
formations in  the  panorama  of  Nature.  Seen 
from  the  standpoint  of  his  great,  overwhelming 
lie  to  her,  the  philosophy  which  this  man  had 
professed  changed  in  its  appearance,  and  that 
mightily.  He  had  used  his  cleverness  like  a  net 
to  trap  her,  and  now,  though  she  could  not  prove 
his  words  untrue  save  in  one  particular,  yet  that 
crowning  act  of  faithlessness  much  tended  to 
vitiate  all  the  beauties  of  imagination  which  had 
gone  before  it.  They  were  lilies  grown  from  a 
dung-heap.  Looking  back  in  the  new  cold  side- 
light, her  life  came  out  clearly  with  all  the  color 
gone  from  it  and  the  remorseless  details  distinct. 
And  in  this  survey  Nature  dwindled  to  a  minor 
Deity,  a  goddess  with  moods  as  many  and  whims 
as  wild  as  a  woman's.  She  was  unstable,  it 
seemed  to  Joan  then;  the  immemorial  solidity 
and  splendor  of  her  had  departed ;  her  eyes  were 
not  fixed  on  Heaven  any  more,  nor  did  peace 
any  longer  rest  within  them ;  they  were  fright- 


LYING   PROPHETS  315 

ened,  terrified,  and  their  wild  and  furtive  glances 
followed  one  Shadow,  reflected  one  Shape.  It 
stood  waiting  at  the  end  of  all  her  avenues;  it 
peered  from  the  heart  of  her  forests ;  it  wandered 
on  her  heaths  and  moors ;  it  lay  under  the  stones 
in  her  rivers;  it  stalked  her  sea-shores,  floated 
on  her  waves,  rode  upon  her  lightning,  hid  in 
her  four  winds;  and  the  Shadow's  name  was 
Death.  Joan  stood  face  to  face  with  it  at  last 
and  gazed  round-eyed  at  a  revelation.  She  was 
saddened  to  find  her  own  story  told  by  Nature 
in  many  allegories,  painted  upon  the  garden,  set 
forth  in  waste  places,  fashioned  by  humble 
weeds,  reflected  in  the  small,  brief  lives  of  un- 
considered  creatures.  Now  she  imagined  her- 
self an  ill-shaped  apple  in  the  orchard  which  the 
mother  of  all  had  neglected.  It  was  crumpled 
up  on  one  side,  twisted  out  of  its  fair  full  beauty, 
ruined  by  some  wicked  influence — a  failure.  Now 
she  was  a  fly  caught  by  the  gold  spider  who  set 
his  web  shaking  to  deceive.  Now  she  was  a  lit- 
tle bird  singing  one  moment,  the  next  crawling 
dazed  and  shaking  under  the  paw  of  a  cat.  Why 
should  Nature  make  the  strong  her  favorites  and 
be  so  cruel  to  the  weak?  That  seemed  an  un- 
godly thing  to  Joan.  She  had  only  reached  this 
point.  She  had  no  inkling  of  the  great  cleans- 
ing process  which  removes  the  dross,  the  eternal 
competition  from  which  only  the  cleanest  and 
sweetest  and  best  come  forth  first.  She  saw  the 
battle  indeed,  but  did  not  understand  the  mean- 
ing of  it  any  more  than  the  rest  of  the  world 
which,  in  the  words  of  the  weakling  Barron,  be- 


316  LYING    PROPHETS 

neath  the  emblems  of  a  false  humanity,  keeps 
its  weeds  under  hot-house  glasses  and,  out  of 
mercy  to  futile  individuals,  does  terribly  wrong 
its  communities.  Our  cleansing  processes  are 
only  valuable  so  far  as  they  go  hand  in  hand 
with  Nature,  and  where  the  folly  of  many  fools 
rejects  the  wisdom  of  the  wise,  there  Nature  has 
her  certain  revenge  sooner  or  later.  The  sins  of 
the  State  are  visited  on  the  children  of  the  State, 
and  those  who  repeal  laws  which  Science,  walk- 
ing hand  in  hand  with  Nature,  has  proposed, 
those  who  refuse  laws  which  Science,  Nature- 
taught,  urges  upon  Power,  do  not  indeed  suffer 
themselves,  but  commit  thousands  of  others  to 
suffering.  So  their  false  sentiment  in  effect 
poisons  the  blood-springs  of  a  nation.  Religion 
leads  to  these  disasters,  and  any  religion  an- 
swerable for  gigantic  human  follies  is  either 
false  or  most  falsely  comprehended. 

Her  uncle  still  tarried,  and  Joan,  weary  of 
waiting,  betook  herself  and  her  sorrows  to  the 
old  garden,  there  to  view  a  spectacle  which  she 
never  tired  of.  She  watched  the  evening  prim- 
roses, saw  their  green  bud-cases  spring  open  and 
the  soft  yellow  leaves  tremble  out  like  butterflies 
new  come  from  the  chrysalis.  She  loved  these 
little  lemon-colored  lamps  that  twinkled  anew  at 
every  sundown  in  the  green  twilight  of  the  gar- 
den. She  knew  their  eyes  would  watch  through 
the  night  and  that  their  reward  would  be  death. 
Many  shriveled  fragments  marked  the  old  blos- 
soms on  the  long  stems,  but  the  crowns  of  each 
still  put  out  new  buds,  and  every  dusk  saw  the 


LYING   PROPHETS  317 

wakening  of  fresh  blossoms  heedless  of  their 
dead  sisters  below.  "They  was  killed  'cause 
they  looked  at  the  sun,"  thought  Joan.  "I 
suppose  the  moon  be  theer  mistress  and  they 
should  not  chaange  their  god.  Yet  it  do  seem 
hard  like  to  be  scorched  to  death  for  lookin' 
upward." 

What  she  saw  now  typified  in  a  dead  flower 
was  her  own  case  under  a  new  symbol;  but  the 
girl  wasted  no  anger  on  the  man  who  had  played 
with  her  to  make  a  holiday  pleasant,  on  that 
mock  sun  whose  light  now  turned  to  darkness. 
Her  mind  was  occupied  entirely  with  pity  for 
herself.  And  that  fact  probably  promised  to  be 
a  sure  first  step  to  peace.  The  lonely  void  of 
her  life  must  be  filled,  else  Joan  was  like  to  go 
mad;  and  the  filling,  left  to  Faith,  might  yet 
be  happily  accomplished.  For  Faith,  if  no  more 
than  a  "worm  with  diamond  eyes"  yet  has  eyes 
of  diamonds,  and  rainbows  are  the  arches  of  her 
shape.  Faith  is  fair  and  a  very  heart-companion 
to  those  who  know  her  and  love  her  courts;  and 
Joan,  of  all  others,  was  best  endowed  by  disposi- 
tion and  instinct  for  the  possession  of  her.  Faith 
had  slept  in  the  girl's  heart  since  her  mother  died ; 
but,  sleeping,  had  grown,  and  now  waited  in  all 
strength  to  be  called  to  a  great  task.  The  void 
was  at  its  deepest  just  now;  the  lowest  note  of 
Joan's  soul  had  sounded ;  the  facts  of  her  ruin 
and  desertion  were  fully  accepted  at  last ;  and 
such  knowledge  served  even  to  turn  the  grow- 
ing mother  in  her  sour  for  a  time.  Maternal  in- 
stinct stood  still  just  a  little  while  at  this  point 


,'U8  LYING    PROPHETS 

in  the  girl's  inner  life;  then,  when  all  things 
whirled  away  to  chaos;  on  this  night,  when 
nothing  remained  sure  for  her  but  death ;  in  her 
hour  of  ultimate,  unutterable  weakness  and  at 
the  dawn  of  a  blank  despair,  came  one  last  plea 
from  Uncle  Chirgwin.  Mary  had  given  up  talk- 
ing, fairly  wearied  out  and  convinced  that  to 
waste  more  words  on  Joan  would  be  a  culpable 
disposal  of  time;  but  Mr.  Chirgvviu  blundered 
doggedly  on  with  the  humility  of  a  worm  and 
the  obstinacy  of  a  friendly  dog.  He  hammered 
at  the  portals  of  Joan's  spiritual  being  with  ad- 
mirable pertinacity;  and  at  length  he  had  his 
reward.  Faith  in  something  being  an  absolute 
and  vital  essential  to  the  welfare  of  every  wo- 
man, Joan  Tregenza  was  no  exception  to  the 
rule. 

It  fell  out  on  the  night  of  her  uncle's  weekly 
visit  to  market,  that  Joan  had  just  returned 
from  the  garden,  when  she  heard  the  clatter  of 
the  spring-cart.  It  drew  up  at  the  kitchen  door 
and  Mary  alighted  with  Mr.  Chirgwin.  The 
baskets  that  had  started  laden  with  eggs,  butter 
and  other  produce  came  back  empty  save  for  a 
few  brown  paper  parcels.  Exceptional  prices 
had  ruled  in  the  market-place  that  day,  so  Mr. 
Chirgwin  and  his  niece  returned  home  in  excel- 
lent temper. 

They  all  met  at  supper,  together  with  those 
farm-servants  who  took  their  meals  at  the  far- 
mer's table.  Then  the  I;tl>orer8  and  the  women 
workers  withdrew;  Mary  sat  down  to  a  little 
•ewing  before  bedtime;  and  Mr.  Chirgwin 


LYING   PROPHETS  319 

smoked  his  pipe  and  looked  at  Joan.  He  no- 
ticed that  the  weather  reflected  much  upon  her 
moods.  She  was  more  than  usually  silent  to- 
night despite  the  bright  news  from  market. 

Presently  Mary  put  on  the  kettle  and  brought 
out  a  bottle  of  rum.  Her  uncle  had  taken  his 
nightcap  of  spirit  and  water  from  her  hand  for 
nearly  ten  years,  and  the  little  duty  of  preparing 
it  was  dear  to  her.  She  also  made  cups  of  tea 
for  Joan  and  herself.  Mary  often  blamed  her- 
self for  this  luxury  and  only  allowed  it  on  the 
night  that  ended  those  arduous  duties  proper  to 
market-day.  While  thus  employed,  both  she 
and  Uncle  Thomas  tried  to  draw  Joan  out  of 
her  gloomy  silence. 

"Theer's  to  be  a  braave  sight  o'  singin'  down 
to  Penzance  come  next  week,  Joan.  Lunnon 
folks,  they  tell  me,  wi'  names  a  foot  tall  stuck 
'pon  the  hoardings.  Us  thot  'twould  be  a  pleas- 
in'  kind  o'  junketin'  to  go  an'  listen.  Not  but 
entertainments  o'  singin'  by  night  be  mighty 
exciting  to  the  blood.  Awnly  just  for  wance, 
Polly  reckoned  it  might  do  us  all  good.  An' 
Polly  knaws  what's  singin'  an'  what  edn'  so 
well  as  any  lass.  The  riders*  be  comin'  like- 
wise, though  maybe  that's  tu  wild  an'  savage 
amoosment  for  quiet  folks." 

"You  an'  Polly  go  to  the  singin'  then.  'Tedn' 
for  the  likes  o'  me." 

Then  Joan  turned  to  her  cousin,  who  was 
pouring  tea  out  of  a  little  pot  which  held  two 
cups  and  no  more. 

*  The  riders — A  circus. 


320  LYING   PROPHETS 

"Let  me  have  the  last  nine  drops,  Polly; 
they'm  good  for  the  heartache,  an'  mine's 
more'n  common  sore  to-night." 

Mary  sighed,  opened  her  mouth  to  preach 
a  sermon,  hut  shut  it  without  a  word.  She 
drained  the  teapot  into  Joan's  cup,  and  then, 
from  a  bright  mood  for  her,  relapsed  into  cold 
silence.  Uncle  Chirgwin,  however,  prattled  on 
about  the  concert  until  his  elder  niece  finished 
her  tea  and  went  to  bed.  Then  he  put  down 
his  pipe,  took  a  long  pull  at  his  drink,  and  be- 
gan to  talk  hurriedly  to  Joan. 

"I  bin  an'  got  a  wonnerful  fine  notion  this 
day,  drivin'  home-long,  Joan;  an'  it's  corned 
back  an'  back  that  importuneous  that  I  lay  it's 
truth,  an'  sent  for  me  to  remember.  D'you 
knaw  that  since  you  corned  to  Drift  us  have 
prospered  uncommon?  IBS,  us  have.  The  win- 
ter dedn'  give  no  mighty  promise,  nor  yet  the 
spring,  till  you  corned.  Then  the  Lard  smiled 
'pon  Drift.  Look  at  the  hay  what's  gwaine  to 
be  cut,  God  willin',  next  week.  I  never  seed 
nothin'  more  butivul  thick  underneath  in  all  my 
days.  A  rare  aftermath  tu,  I'll  warrant.  "Pis 
so  all  round.  The  wheat's  kerain'  somethin' 
cruel  fine — I  awnly  wish  theer  was  more  of  it — 
an'  the  sheep  an'  cattle's  in  braave  kelter  like- 
wise. Then  the  orchard  do  promise  no  worse- 
I  never  seed  such  a  shaw  of  russets  an'  of  quar- 
antines 'pon  they  old  trees  afore." 

"  'Tw  a  fine,  fair  season. " 

"Why,  so  I  say — a  'mazin'  summer  thus  far 
—but  what's  the  reason  o't?  That's  the  poser 


LYING   PROPHETS  321 

as  an  answer  corned  to  in  the  oart  a  drivin' 
home.  You'm  the  reason!  You  mind  when 
good  Saint  Levan  walked  through  the  fields 
that  the  grass  grawed  the  greener  for  his  tread, 
an'  many  days  arter,  when  he'd  gone  dead  years 
an'  years,  the  corn  allus  corned  richest  'long  the 
path  what  he  trod.  An'  'tis  the  same  here, 
'cause  God's  eye  be  on  you,  Joan  Tregenza,  an' 
His  eye  caan't  be  fixed  'pon  no  spot  wi'out 
brightening  all  around.  You  mind  me,  that's 
solemn  truth.  The  Lard's  watchin'  over  you — 
watchin'  double  tides,  as  the  sailors  say — and  so 
this  bit  o'  airth's  smilin'  from  the  herb  o'  the 
field  to  the  biggest  tree  as  graws.  He'm  watch- 
in'  over  Drift  for  your  sake,  my  girl,  an'  the 
farm  prospers  along  o'  the  gert  goodness  o'  the 
watchin'  Lard.  Iss  fay,  He  fills  all  things  liv- 
in'  with  plenshousness,  an'  fats  the  root  an' 
swells  the  corn  'cause  He'm  breathin'  sweet 
over  the  land — 'cause  He'm  wakin'  an'  watch- 
in'  for  you,  Joan." 

"He'm  watchin'  all  of  us,  I  s'pose — just  to 
catch  the  trippin'  footstep,  like  what  faither  sez. 
He  abbun  no  call  to  worry  no  more  'bout  me,  I 
reckon.  I  be  Nature's  cheel,  I  be;  an'  my 
mother's  turnin'  hard  too — like  a  cat,  as  purrs 
to  'e  wan  moment  an'  sclows  'e  the  next.  My 
day's  done.  I've  chose  wrong  an'  must  abide 
by  it.  But  'tis  along  o'  bein'  sich  a  lil  fool. 
Nature  pushes  the  weak  to  the  wall.  I've  seed 
that  much  'o  late  days.  I  was  born  to  have  my 
heart  broke,  I  s'pose.  'Tedn'  nothin'  very 
straange." 


322  LYING   PROPHETS 

"I  judge  your  angel  do  cry  gert  tears  when 
you  lets  on  like  that,  my  Joan.  Oh,  gal,  why 
won't  'e  give  ear  to  me,  as  have  lived  fifty  an' 
more  winters  in  the  world  than  what  you  have? 
Why  caan't  'e  taste  an'  try  what  the  Lard  is? 
Drabbit  this  nonsense  'bout  Nature !  As  if  you 
was  a  fitcher,  or  an  'awk,  or  an  owl!  Caan't  'e 
see  what  a  draggle  tail,  low-minded  pass  all  this 
be  bringin'  'e  to?  Yet  you'm  a  thinkin'  creat- 
ure an'  abbun  done  no  worse  than  scores  o'  folks 
who  be  tauklin'  'pon  harps  afore  the  throne  o' 
God  this  blessed  minute.  You  chose  wrong; 
you  said  so,  an'  I  was  glad  to  hear  'e,  for  you 
never  'lowed  even  that  much  till  this  night. 
What  then?  Everybody  chooses  wrong  wan 
time  or  another.  Some  allus  goes  for  it,  like 
the  bud-pickers  to  the  red-currant  bushes,  some 
slips  here  an'  theer,  an'  do  straightway  right 
'emselves — right  'emselves  again  an'  again. 
The  best  life  be  just  a  slippin'  up  an'  rightin' 
over  an'  over,  till  a  man  dies.  You've  slipped 
young  an'  maybe  theer's  half  a  cent'ry  o'  years 
waitin'  for  'e  to  get  'pon  the  right  road ;  yet  you 
sez  you  must  abide  by  what  you've  done.  Think 
how  it  stands.  You've  forgived  him  as  wronged 
'e,  an'  caan't  the  Lard  forgive  as  easy  as  you 
can?  He  forgived  you  'fore  you  was  born.  I 
lay  the  Luke  Gosp'lers  never  told  'e  that  braave 
fact,  'cause  they  doan't  knaw  it  theerselves. 
'Tis  like  this :  your  man  did  take  plain  Nature 
for  God,  an'  he  did  talk  fulishness  'bout  find  i me 
Him  in  the  scent  o'  flowers,  the  hum  o'  beea  an' 
sichlike.  Mayhap  Nature's  a  gude  working  God 


LYING    PROPHETS  323 

for  a  selfish  man,  but  she  edn'  wan  for  a  maid, 
as  you  knaws  by  now.  Then  your  faither — his 
God  do  sit  everlastingly  alongside  hell-mouth,  an' 
laugh  an'  girn  to  see  all  the  world  a  walkin'  in, 
same  as  the  beasts  walked  in  the  Ark.  Theer's 
another  picksher  of  a  God  for  'e ;  but  mark  this, 
gal,  they  be  lying  prophets — lying  prophets  both ! 
You've  tried  the  wan,  an'  found  it  left  your 
heart  hollow  like,  an'  you've  tried  t'other  an' 
found  that  left  it  no  better  filled;  now  try  Christ, 
will  'e — ?  Just  try.  Doan't  keep  Him,  as  is 
allus  busy,  a  waitin'  your  whims  no  more.  Try 
Christ,  Joan  dearie,  an'  you'll  feel  what  you've 
never  felt  yet.  I  knaw,  as  put  my  'and  in  His 
when  'twas  plump  an'  young  as  yourn.  An' 
He  holds  it  yet,  now  'tis  shriveled  an'  crooked 
wi'  rheumatics.  He  holds  it.  Iss,  He  do." 

The  old  man  put  out  his  hand  to  Joan  as  he 
spoke  and  she  took  it  between  her  own  and 
kissed  it. 

"You'm  very  good,"  she  said,  "an'  you'm 
wise  'cause  you'm  auld  an'  have  seen  many 
years.  I  prayed  to  Saint  Madern  to  hear  me 
not  long  since,  an'  I  bathed  in  his  waters,  an' 
went  home  happy.  But  awnly  the  birds  an' 
the  rabbits  heard  me.  An'  next  day  faither 
turned  me  out  o'  his  house  an'  counted  me 
numbered  for  hell." 

"Saints  be  very  well,  but  'tedn'  in  'cordance 
with  what  we'm  tawld  nowadays  to  pray  to  any 
but  the  Lard  direct." 

He  pleaded  long  and  patiently,  humbly  pray- 
ing for  the  religion  which  had  lightened  his  own 


324  LYING   PROPHETS 

road.  The  thought  of  his  vast  experience  and 
the  spectacle  of  his  own  blameless  and  simple 
life,  as  she  reviewed  it,  made  Joan  relent  at  last. 
The  great  loneliness  of  her  heart  yearned  for 
something  to  fill  it.  Man  had  failed  her,  saints 
had  failed  her;  Nature  had  turned  cold;  and 
Uncle  Chirgwin  held  out  a  great  promise. 

"Ban't  no  sort  o'  use,  I'm  thinkin',"  she  said 
at  last,  "but  if  you'm  that  set  'pon  it  I'll  do 
your  wish.  I  owe  you  that  an'  more'n  that. 
Iss,  I'll  come  along  wi'  you  an'  Mary  to  San- 
creed  church  next  Sunday.  'Tis  lil  enough  to 
do  for  wan  as  have  done  so  much  for  me." 

"Thank  God!"  he  said  earnestly.  "That's 
good  news,  to  be  sure,  bless  your  purty  eyes! 
An'  doan't  'e  go  a  tremblin'  an'  fearin',  you 
mind,  like  to  meetin'.  'Tedn'  no  ways  like 
that.  Just  love  o'  the  Lard  an'  moosic  an'  holy 
thots  from  passon,  an'  not  more  hell-fire  than 
keeps  a  body  healthy-minded  an'  awake.  My 
ivere!  I  could  a'most  sing  an'  dance  myself 
now,  an'  arter  my  day's  work  tu,  to  think  as 
you'll  sit  alongside  o'  me  in  church  come  Sun- 
day!" 

Joan  smiled  at  his  enthusiasm  on  her  behalf, 
then  kissed  him  and  went  to  bed ;  while  he,  mix- 
ing up  his  prayers,  his  last  pipe,  and  his  final 
glass  of  spirits  according  to  his  custom,  sat  the 
fire  out  while  he  drank  deeper  and  prayed  harder 
than  usual  in  the  light  of  his  triumph. 

"Polly  couldn'  do  it,  not  for  all  her  brains  an' 
godliness,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "yet  'twas 
given  to  an  auld  simple  sawl  like  me!  An*  I 


LYING   PROPHETS  325 

have.  I've  led  her  slap-bang  into  the  hand  o' 
the  Lard,  an'  the  rest  be  His  business.  No 
man's  done  a  better  day's  work  inside  Cornwall 
to-day  than  what  I  have — that's  sure!" 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

FROM  JOE 

SINCE  her  visit  to  the  church  at  Newlyn, 
Joan  had  been  in  no  place  of  worship  save  the 
chapel  of  the  Luke  Gospelers.  What  might  be 
the  nature  of  the  service  before  her  she  did  not 
know,  nor  did  she  care.  But  the  girl  kept  her 
promise  and  drove  in  the  market-cart  to  San- 
creed  with  her  uncle  and  cousin  when  Sunday 
came.  The  little  church  lay  bowered  in  its 
grove  of  sycamores,  and,  around  it,  a  golden- 
green  concourse  of  quivering  shadows  cooled 
those  who  had  walked  or  driven  from  Drift — 
an  outlying  portion  of  the  parish — approached 
through  lanes  innocent  of  all  shade.  Mr. 
Chirgwin  put  up  the  horse  and  presently  joined 
his  nieces  in  church.  Then  Joan  saw  him 
under  interesting  and  novel  conditions.  He 
wore  glasses  with  gold  rims;  he  covered  his 
bald  head  with  a  little  velvet  cap;  at  the  ap- 
pointed time  he  took  a  wooden  plate  and  carried 
it  round  for  money.  Mary  found  the  old  man's 


326  LYING    PROPHETS 

places  for  him  arid  sang  in  a  way  that  fairly 
astounded  Joan.  The  enormous  satisfaction 
brought  to  herself  by  these  vocal  efforts  was 
apparent.  Her  soul  appeared  mightily  lifted 
up.  She  amused  chance  visitors  to  the  church, 
but  the  regular  congregation  liked  to  hear  Maiy ; 
and  Joan,  seeing  the  comfort  her  cousin  sucked 
from  singing,  wished  she  had  heart  to  join. 
That,  however,  she  wholly  lacked.  Moreover, 
the  words  were  strange  to  her. 

The  quiet  service,  brightened  by  music, 
dragged  its  slow  length  murmuringly  along. 
The  sermon,  delivered  by  a  visitor,  was  not  of 
a  sort  to  hold  Joan,  and,  indeed,  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  attract  many  in  such  a  congrega- 
tion. The  preacher  had  lately  been  reading  old 
Cornish  history,  and,  overcome  by  the  startling 
fact  that  the  far  west  of  England — Cornwall 
and  Devon — were  Christian  long  before  Augus- 
tine saw  Kent,  dwelt  upon  the  matter  after  a 
very  instructive  fashion  in  ears  unlikely  to 
benefit  from  such  knowledge.  That  the  Cornu 
British  bishops  preached  Christ  while  yet  Sussex, 
Wessex,  Hampshire,  Berks  and  other  districts 
worshiped  Woden,  Freya,  the  Queen  of  Heaven, 
the  Thunder  God,  and  other  deities  whose  altars 
were  set  up  after  the  Conquest,  did  not  interest 
Joan  for  one  or  Mr.  Chirgwin  for  another.  But 
the  girl  woke  up  at  the  mention  of  Irish  and 
Welsh  and  Breton  saints.  Pleasant  to  hear  was 
the  utterance  of  names  which  she  had  loved  once 
but  of  late  almost  forgotten.  They  came  back 
now,  and,  the  service  having  turned  her  heart 


LYING   PROPHETS  327 

to  softness,  she  welcomed  them  gladly  as  frienda 
returned  from  afar.  For  the  rest,  the  Litany  it 
was  which  roused  Joan  to  deepest  interest  and 
opened  her  mind  to  new  impressions.  Here  was 
a  prayer,  gigantic  in  length,  universal,  all-em- 
bracing, catholic  beyond  the  compass  of  any- 
thing her  thoughts  had  heretofore  conceived. 
From  the  Queen  upon  her  throne  to  Joan  her- 
self, from  the  bishops,  the  princes  and  the  Lords 
of  the  Council  to  Uncle  Chirgwin  and  his  fruits 
of  the  earth,  that  astounding  petition  ranged 
with  equal  vigor  and  earnestness.  Nothing  was 
too  high,  nothing  was  too  low  for  it;  all  the 
world  was  named,  and  the  people  cried  for  a 
hearing  or  for  mercy  between  each  supplication 
and  each  prayer.  The  overwhelming  majesty 
of  such  praying  impressed  Joan  much;  as,  in- 
deed, it  impresses  all  who  come  adult  thereto 
and  do  not  associate  it  with  their  childhood, 
with  weary  hours  dragging  interminably  out, 
with  sleepy  buzz  of  voices,  with  sore  knees  or  a 
breaking  back,  with  yearnings  stifled,  with  de- 
vices for  passing  tune,  with  the  longed-for  sun- 
shine stealing  inch  by  inch  eastward  on  the 
church  walls. 

"A  power  o'  larnin'  in  a  small  headpiece," 
commented  Uncle  Chirgwin  as  he  drove  home 
with  the  girls  sitting  side  by  side  on  his  left. 
"A  braave  ch'ice  o'  words  an'  a  easy  knowledge 
o'  the  saints  as  weern't  picked  up  in  a  day.  "Tis 
well  to  hear  a  furriner  now  an'  again.  They  do 
widen  the  grasp  of  a  man's  mind,  looking  'pon 
things  from  a  changed  point  o'  view.  Not  as  us 


328  LYING    PROPHETS 

could  be  'spected  to  be  Latiners,  yet  I  seem  'tis 
very  well  to  listen  to  it  as  chance  offers.  'Tis 
something  to  knaw  'twas  Latin,  an'  that  did  I, 
though  I  doubt  some  o'  the  good  neighbors 
couldn'  tell  it  for  what  'twas,  by  no  means." 

Joan  said  little  about  the  service,  but  she 
praised  the  Litany  from  her  own  peculiar  atti- 
tude toward  it. 

"That  be  fine  prayin',"  she  said,  "with  nobody 
forgot,  an'  all  in  black  print  so's  wance  said 
'tedn'  lost." 

After  dinner,  when  Mary  had  gone  to  see  a 
friend  and  the  farm  people  were  dawdling 
abroad  till  evening  milking-time,  Joan  made 
her  uncle  read  the  service  through  again.  This 
he  did  comfortably  between  the  whiffs  of  his 
pipe,  and  Joan  answered  the  responses,  cooing 
them  in  her  sweet  voice  as  softly  as  the  red  and 
blue  pigeons  crooned  on  the  roof  outside.  Drift 
was  asleep  under  a  hot  blaze  of  afternoon  sun- 
shine. Sometimes  a  child's  keen  voice  in  the 
road  cut  the  drowsy  silence  and  came  to  Joan's 
ears  where  she  sat,  in  the  best  parlor  with  Uncle 
Thomas ;  sometimes  slow  wheels  rumbled  up  the 
hill  toward  Buryan.  Other  sounds  there  were 
none.  The  old  people  slept  within  their  cot- 
tages after  the  extra  baked  meats  of  Sunday's 
dinner;  many  of  the  young  paired  and  walked 
where  pathways  ran  over  meadows  and  through 
yellowing  wheat ;  while  others,  more  gregarious 
and  unattached,  had  tramped  away  to  Penzance 
to  join  the  parade  by  the  sea  and  meet  their 
friends  from  the  shops. 


LYING   PROPHETS  320 

Anon  nailed  boots  stamped  up  the  little  path- 
way to  Drift  farmhouse,  and  Tom  Tregenza 
appeared.  To-day  he  entered  fearlessly,  for  he 
came  upon  an  errand  from  his  father.  He 
kissed  Joan  and  shook  hands  with  Uncle 
Thomas.  Then  he  said: 

"  'Tis  a  letter  as  I've  brought  for  Joan — a 
furriner." 

The  girl's  heart  beat  hard,  and  the  blood 
rushing  from  her  cheeks  left  them  white.  But 
the  letter  only  came  from  Joe  Noy,  and  it  is  cer- 
tain that  Mr.  Tregenza  would  have  forwarded 
no  other.  Excitement  died,  and  was  painfully 
renewed,  in  a  fresh  direction,  when  Joan  real- 
ized from  whom  the  missive  came  and  thought 
about  its  writer.  He  had  long  been  a  stranger 
to  her  mind,  and  now  he  seemed  suddenly  to  re- 
enter  it — like  a  stranger. 

"I  can  stay  for  a  bit  of  tea  so  long  as  I  be 
back  by  chapel-time,"  explained  Tom. 

"An'  so  you  shall,  my  son.  Run  'e  out  o'  doors 
an'  amoose  yourself  where  you  mind  to;  awnly 
don't  ope  the  lil  linhay  in  the  Brook  Croft, 
'cause  auld  bull's  fastened  up  theer  an'  his  tem- 
per's gettin'  more'n  more  out  o'  hand." 

So  Tom  departed,  and  Uncle  Chirgwin  read 
Joan's  letter  aloud  to  her.  It  came  from  Santa 
Rosalia,  and  contained  not  much  news  but  plenty 
of  love  and  some  religious  sentiments  bred  from 
the  writer's  foreign  environment.  Joe  Noy 
would  be  back  in  England  again  before  the 
end  of  the  year. 


330  LYINO   PROPHETS 

Joaii  WHS  reduced  to  tears  by  this  communica- 
tion. She  refused  to  be  comforted,  and,  indeed, 
the  position  was  beyond  Uncle  Chirgwin's  power 
to  brighten.  The  letter  had  come  at  a  bad  mo- 
ment, and  that  calm  and  repose  which  almost 
appeared  to  be  softening  Joan's  sorrows  now 
spread  speedy  wings  and  departed,  leaving  her 
wholly  forlorn.  Curtains  were  falling  behind 
her,  but  curtains  were  also  rising  in  front.  She 
had  looked  forward  vaguely,  and  now  the  posi- 
tion was  suddenly  defined  by  the  arrival  of 
Joe's  letter,  with  all  its  future  phases  clear-cut, 
cold  and  terrible. 

"My  baaby's  comin'  just  then.  An'  that's 
what'll  fall  'pon  his  ear  fust  thing.  Oh,  if  us 
could  awnly  tell  en  afore  he  comes  so  he  might 
knaw  'tis  all  chaanged !  'Twould  be  easier  for 
en,  lovin'  me  that  keen.  He'd  grawed  to  be  a 
shadder  of  a  man  in  my  mind;  but  now  I  sees 
en  real  flaish'n  blood ;  an'  maybe — maybe  he'll 
seek  me  out  an'  kill  me  for  what's  done." 

"I  do  creem  to  hear  'e,  gal!  No,  no,  Joe 
Noy's  a  God  fearin'  sawl." 

"If  he'd  forgive  me  fust,  I'd  so  soon  he  killed 
me  as  not.  Sam  Martin  killed  Widow  Garth's 
gal  'cause  she  were  ontrue  to  en;  an'  a  many 
said  'twas  wrong  to  hang  en  to  Bodmin. 
Death's  my  deserts,  same  as  Ann  Garth;  an' 
she  got  it;  an'  I  doan't  care  how  soon  I  do. 
None  wants  me  no  more,  nor  what  I'm  breedin* 
neither.  I'd  die  now,  an'  smilin',  if  'tweern't 
for  arterwards." 

"Cuss  the  letter!*'  said  Uncle  Chirgwin,  get- 


LYING   PROPHETS  331 

ting  red  in  the  face.  "Cuss  it,  I  says,  for 
gwaine  an'  turnin'  up  just  this  day!  A  fort- 
night later  you  could  'a'  looked  on  it  wi'  quiet 
mind  an'  knawed  wheer  to  turn;  to-day's  it's 
just  bin  an'  undone  what  was  done.  Not  but 
what  'tis  as  butivul  a  letter  as  ever  corned  off 
the  sea;  but  if  theer'd  awnly  been  time  to 
'stablish  'e  'fore  it  corned !  Now  you've  turned 
your  back  'pon  the  Household  o'  Faith  just  as 
arms  was  being  stretched  out  that  lovin'." 

"Faith  won't  undo  what  I've  done,  nor  yet 
make  my  wickedness  fall  lighter  for  Joe.  Yes, 
'twas  wicked,  wicked,  wicked.  I  knaw  it  now." 

Mary  and  Tom  came  in  from  different  direc- 
tions about  this  time.  The  latter  had  regaled 
himself  with  a  peep  at  "auld  bull,"  heard  the 
terrific  snorting  of  his  nostrils  and  observed  how 
he  bellowed  mightily  at  durance  on  such  an 
afternoon.  Tea  being  finished,  the  boy  started 
homeward  with  a  basket  of  fresh  eggs  and  but- 
ter, a  pound  of  cream  and  some  early  apples  of 
a  sort  used  for  cider,  but  yet  equal  to  the  mak- 
ing of  a  pie. 

"As  for  the  butter,  'tis  Joan's  churnin',"  said 
Mary,  "but  you'd  best  not  to  tell  your  faither 
that,  else,  so  like's  not,  he'll  pitch  it  into  the 
sea.  If  us  could  send  en  a  pound  o'  charity,  I 
doubt  he'd  be  better  for't." 

"Faither's  a  holy  man,  whatever  else  he  be," 
said  Tom  stoutly.  "He  doan't  want  for  no 
good  qualities  like,  'cause  what  he  doan't  knaw 
'bout  God  edn'  worth  knawin'." 

Mary  laughed.     It  was  a  feat  she  seldom  per- 


332  LYING   PROPHETS 

formed,  and  the  sound  of  her  amusement  lacked 

joy- 

"Well,  us  won't  argue  'bout  en.  You'm  right 
to  say  that.  Be  the  basket  too  heavy  for  'e?" 

"No!  not  likely.  Have  'e  ever  seed  my  fore- 
arm, Polly?" 

"Never.  I  will  another  time.  Best  be 
gwaine,  else  you'll  be  late  for  chapel." 

So  Tom  marched  off,  and  Mary,  returning  to 
the  house,  heard  of  Joan's  letter. 

The  old  gusts  of  misery,  sorrow,  indignation, 
rose  hi  her  heart  again  then,  but  faintly,  like 
the  dying  flutter  of  winds  that  have  blown 
themselves  out.  She  tried  to  find  a  way  of 
bringing  comfort  to  her  cousin,  but  failed. 
Joan  had  retired  and  refused  consolation. 

The  glory  of  splendid  summer  hours  passed 
away;  the  long  twilight  sank  to  darkness;  the 
opal  lights  in  the  west  at  last  died  under  the 
silver  of  the  moon.  And  then,  like  a  child 
weary  with  crying,  Joan  slept,  while  Mary, 
creeping  a  third  time  to  see  and  speak  with  her, 
departed  silently.  But  she  did  not  sleep;  and 
her  wakefulness  was  fortunate,  for  long  after 
eleven  o'clock  came  a  noisy  summons  at  the 
outer  door.  Looking  from  her  room  which 
faced  the  front  of  the  house,  the  woman  saw 
Tom  with  his  full  basket  standing  clearly  de- 
fined below.  The  world  of  the  weald  and 
woods  shimmered  silvery  in  dew  and  moonlight. 
Infinite  silence  reigned.  Then  the  boy's  small, 
indignant  voice  broke  it. 

"You'll  have  to  let  me  in,  I  reckon.     Blamed 


LYING   PROPHETS  333 

if  I  doan't  think  you  was  right  'bout  faither 
arter  all." 

The  reason  for  Tom's  return  may  be  briefly 
told.  He  had  taken  his  basket  home  and  got  it 
safely  under  cover  to  his  mother.  Then,  after 
chapel,  Gray  Michael  went  into  the  village,  and 
Thomasin  had  an  opportunity  to  ask  some  of 
those  questions  she  was  burning  to  put. 

"An'  how  be  Joan?"  she  began. 

"Wisht  an'  drawed  thin  'bout  the  faace  seem- 
in'ty.  An*  Joe's  letter  just  made  her  cry  fit  to 
bust  her  eyes,  'stead  o'  cheerin'  of  her  like." 

"Poor  lass.  I  dedn'  expect  nothin'  differ'nt. 
I've  most  a  mind  to  go  up  Drift  an'  see  her — for 
a  reason  I've  thot  upon.  Did  Joan  say  anythin' 
'bout  a  last  will  an'  testament  to  'e?" 

"No,  nothin'  'bout  anything  worth  narnin'. 
But  Polly  had  a  deal  to  say.  Her  wished  her 
could  send  faither  a  pound  o'  charity  'stead  o' 
butter." 

"She  dared!" 

At  that  moment  Mr,  Tregenza  returned  to 
supper,  and  soon  afterward  his  son  went  to  bed. 
The  lad  had  not  been  asleep  half  an  hour  before 
Gray  Michael  came  across  the  basket  from  Drift. 
Two  minutes  later  Tom  heard  the  thunder  of  his 
father's  voice. 

"Tom!  you  come  down  here  an'  be  sharp 
about  it!" 

The  boy  tumbled  out  of  bed  instantly,  and 
went  down  to  the  kitchen  in  his  nightshirt  and 
trousers.  Michael  Tregenza  was  standing  by 
the  table.  Upon  it  appeared  the  basket  from 


LYING    PROPHETS 


Drift,  stored  with  cream,  butter,  eggs  and 
apples.  Thomasin  sat  in  the  low  chair  by  the 
fire  with  her  apron  over  her  face,  and  that  was 
always  a  bad  sign,  as  Tom  knew. 

"What  day  be  this,  bwoy?"  began  Michael. 

"The  Lard's,  faither." 

"Ay:  the  Lard's  awn  day,  though  you've 
forgot  it  seemin'ly." 

"No  I  abbun,  faither." 

"Doan't  'e  answer  me  'cept  I  tells  you  to. 
Where  did  these  things  come  from?" 

"Drift,  faither.  Uncle  Chirgwin  bid  me 
bring  'em  with  his  respects." 

"Did  you  tell  en  'twas  breakin'  the  command- 
ments?" 

"No,  faither." 

"Why  didn't  'e?     You  knawed  it  yourself." 

"Iss,  faither;  but  uncle's  a  ancient  man,  an* 
I  guessed  he  knawed  so  well  as  me,  an'  I  reck- 
oned 'twould  be  sauce  for  such  as  me  to  say  any- 
thing to  a  auld,  gray  body  like  him." 

"Sinners  is  all  colors  an'  ages.  Another  time 
doan't  you  do  what's  wrong,  whether  'tis  auld 
or  young  as  tempts  'e  to't.  You'm  a  Luke 
Gosp'ler,  an'  it  edn'  being  a  shinin'  light  'tall  to 
go  wrong  just  because  wan  as  did  ought  to  knaw 
wiser  an'  doan't,  tells  'e  to.  Now  you  can  lace 
on  your  boots,  as  soon  as  you'm  minded  to,  an' 
traapse  up  Drift  with  that  theer  basket  an'  all 
in  it.  'Twon't  harm  godless  folks  to  wake  Vm 
an'  faace  'em  with  their  wrongdoing.  An'  I 
lay  you'll  remember  another  time." 

Tom,  knowing  that  words  would  be  utterly 


LYING   PROPHETS  335 

wasted,  went  back  to  his  attic,  dressed,  and 
started.  He  had  the  satisfaction  of  eating 
apples  in  the  moonlight  and  of  posing  as  a  bit- 
terly wronged  boy  at  Drift  when  Mary  came 
down,  lighted  a  candle,  and  let  him  into  the 
house. 

Uncle  Chirgwin  also  appeared,  and  said  some 
hard  things  in  a  sleepy  voice,  while  Tom  drank 
cider  and  ate  a  big  slice  of  bread  and  bacon. 

"A  terrible  Old  Testament  man,  your  faither, 
sure  'nough,"  said  Uncle  Chirgwin.  "Be  you 
gwaine  to  stop  the  night  'long  o'  us  or  no?" 

"Not  me!  I  got  to  be  in  the  bwoat  'fore  half- 
past  five  to-morrer  marnin'." 

"This  marnin'  rtis,"  said  Mary,  "or  will  be 
in  a  few  minutes.  An'  you  can  tell  your  faither 
what  I  said  'bout  charity,  if  you  like.  I  sez  it 
again,  an'  it  won't  hurt  en  to  knaw." 

1 '  But  it  might  hurt  me  to  tell.  The  less  said 
soonest  mended  wi'  faither." 

Tom  departed,  the  lighter  for  his  basket.  He 
flung  a  stone  at  a  hare,  listened  to  the  jarring  of 
a  night-hawk,  and  finally  returned  home  about 
one  o'clock.  Both  his  parents  were  awaiting 
him,  and  the  boy  saw  that  his  mother  had  been 
enduring  some  trouble  on  his  behalf. 

"Mind,  my  son,  hencefarrard  that  the  Sabbath 
is  the  Lard  thy  God's.  You  may  have  done 
others  a  good  turn  besides  yourself  this  night." 

"What  did  they  say,  Tom?"  asked  his  mother. 

"They  wasn't  best  pleased.  They  said  a  hard 
sayin'  I'd  better  not  to  say  agin,"  answered  the 
boy.  heavy  with  sleep. 


33G  LYING    PROPHETS 

"Let  it  be.  Us  doan't  want  to  hear  it.  Get 
you  to  bed.  An',  mind,  the  bwoat  at  the  steps 
by  half -past  five  to-morrer." 

"Ay,  ay,  faither." 

Then  Tom  vanished,  his  parents  went  to  their 
rest,  and  the  cottage  on  the  cliff  slept  within  the 
music  of  the  sea,  its  thatch  all  silver-bright 
under  a  summer  moon. 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

A  BARGAIN  FOR  MRS.  TREGBNZA 

To  the  superficial  eye  dead  hopes  leave  ugly 
traces ;  viewed  more  inquiringly  the  cryptic  sig- 
nificance of  them  appears ;  and  that  is  often  beau- 
tiful. Joan's  soul  looked  out  of  her  blue  eyes 
now.  Seen  thoughtfully  her  beauty  was  refined 
and  exalted  to  an  exquisite  perfection ;  but  the 
unintelligent  observer  had  simply  pronounced 
her  pale  and  thin.  The  event  which  first  prom- 
ised to  destroy  the  new-spun  gossamers  of  a  re- 
ligious faith  and  break  them  even  on  the  day  of 
their  creation,  in  reality  acted  otherwise.  For 
Joan,  Joe's  letter  was  like  a  window  opening 
upon  a  hopeless  dawn ;  and  her  helplessness  be- 
fore this  spectacle  of  the  future  threw  the  girl 
upon  religion — not  as  a  sure  rock  in  the  storm  of 


LYING   PROPHETS  337 

her  life,  but  as  a  straw  to  the  hand  of  the  drown- 
ing. The  world  had  nothing  else  left  in  it  for 
her.  She,  to  whom  sunshine  and  happiness 
were  the  breath  of  life,  she  who  had  envied  but- 
terflies their  joyous  being,  now  stood  before  a 
future  all  uphill  and  gray,  lonely  and  loveless. 
As  yet  but  the  dawn  of  affection  for  the  unborn 
child  lightened  her  mind.  Thought  upon  that 
subject  went  hand  in  hand  with  fear  of  pain. 
And  now,  in  her  dark  hours,  Joan  happily  did 
not  turn  to  feed  upon  her  own  heart,  but  fled 
from  it.  For  distraction  she  read  the  four  Gos- 
pels feverishly  day  by  day,  and  she  prayed  long 
to  the  Lord  of  them  by  night. 

Mary  helped  her  in  an  earnest,  cheerless  fash- 
ion, and  before  her  cousin's  solicitude,  Joan's 
eyes  opened  to  another  thought :  the  old  friend- 
ship between  Mary  and  Joe  Noy.  It  had  wak- 
ened once,  on  her  first  arrival  at  Drift,  then 
slept  again  till  now.  She  was  troubled  to  see 
the  other  woman's  indifference,  and  she  formed 
plans  to  bring  these  two  together  again.  The 
act  of  getting  away  from  herself  and  thinking 
for  others  brought  some  comfort  to  her  heart 
and  seemed  to  rise  indirectly  out  of  her  reading. 

The  Christianity  of  Drift  was  old-fashioned, 
and  reflected  the  Founder.  No  distractions  rose 
between  Joan  and  the  story.  She  took  it  at  first 
hand,  escaping  thus  from  those  petty  follies  and 
fooleries  which  blight  and  fog  the  real  issues  to- 
day. She  sucked  her  new  faith  pure.  A  noble 
rule  of  conduct  lay  before  her;  she  dimly  dis- 
cerned something  of  its  force;  and  unselfishness 


338  LYING    PROPHETS 

appeared  in  her,  proving  that  she  had  read 
aright.  As  for  the  dogma,  she  opened  her  arms 
to  that  very  readily  because  it  was  beautiful  and 
promised  so  much.  Faith's  votaries  never  turn 
critical  eyes  upon  the  foundations  of  her  gor- 
geous fabric ;  their  sight  is  fixed  aloft  on  the  rain- 
bow to  were  and  pinnacles,  upon  the  golden  fanes. 
And  yet  this  man-born  structure  of  theology, 
with  aisles  and  pillars  fretting  and  crumbling 
under  the  hand  of  reason,  needs  such  eternal 
propping,  restoring  and  repairing,  that  priestly 
tinkers,  masons,  hod-carriers  are  solely  occupied 
with  it.  They  grapple  and  fight  for  the  poor 
shadows  of  dogma  by  which  they  live,  and,  so 
engaged,  the  spirit  and  substance  of  religion  is 
by  them  altogether  lost.  None  of  the  Christian 
churches  will  ever  be  overcrowded  with  men 
who  possess  brain-power  worthy  the  name. 
Mediocrity  and  ignorance  may  starve,  but  tal- 
ent and  any  new  nostrum  to  strangle  reason 
and  keep  the  rot  from  the  fabric  will  always 
open  their  coffers. 

Joan  truly  found  the  dogma  more  grateful 
and  comforting  than  anything  else  within  her 
experience,  and  the  apparition  of  a  flesh  and 
blood  God,  who  had  saved  her  with  His  own 
life's  blood  before  she  was  born,  appeared  too 
beautiful  and  sufficing  to  In-  less  than  true. 
Her  eyes,  shut  so  long,  seemed  opening  at  last. 
With  errors  that  really  signify  nothing,  she  drew 
to  herself  great  truths  that  matter  much  and  are 
vital  to  all  elevated  conduct.  She  thought  of 
other  people  and  looked  at  them  as  one  wakened 


LYING   PROPHETS  339 

from  sleep.  And,  similarly,  she  looked  at  Nat- 
ure. Even  her  vanished  lover  had  not  taught 
her  all.  There  were  truths  below  the  formulae 
of  his  worship;  there  were  secrets  deeper  than 
his  intellectual  plummet  had  ever  sounded. 
Without  understanding  it,  Joan  yet  knew  that 
a  change  had  come  to  pass  in  material  things. 
Sunshine  on  the  deep  sea  hid  more  matters  for 
wonder  than  John  Barren  had  taught  or  known. 
Once  only  as  yet  had  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Nature's  beating  heart ;  and  that  was  upon  the 
occasion  of  her  visit  to  St.  Madron's  chapel. 
She  was  lifted  up  then  for  a  magic  hour;  but 
the  lurid  end  of  that  day  looked  clearer  after- 
ward than  ever  the  dewy  dawn  of  it.  Nature 
had  smiled  mutely  and  dumbly  at  her  suffer- 
ings for  long  months  since  then.  But  now 
added  knowledge  certainly  grew,  and  from  a 
matrix  mightier  than  the  love  of  Nature  or  of 
man,  was  Joan's  new  life  born.  It  embraced  a 
new  sight,  new  senses,  ambitions,  fears  and 
hopes. 

Joan  went  to  church  at  every  opportunity. 
Faith  seemed  so  easy,  and  soon  so  necessary.  Se- 
cret prayer  became  a  real  thing  to  be  approached 
with  joy.  To  own  to  sins  was  as  satisfactory  as 
casting  down  a  heavy  burden  at  a  journey's  end ; 
to  confess  them  to  God  was  to  know  that  they 
were  forgiven.  There  were  not  many  clouds  in 
her  religious  sky.  As  Mary's  religion  was  bounded 
by  her  own  capabilities  and  set  forth  against  a 
background  of  gloom,  which  never  absolutely 
vanished  save  in  moments  of  rare  exaltation,  so 


340  LYING    PROPHETS 

Joan's  newfound  faith  took  upon  itself  an  aspect 
of  sunshine.  Her  clouds  were  made  beautiful 
by  the  new  light ;  they  did  not  darken  it.  Mary's 
gray  Cornish  mind  kept  sentiment  out  of  sight. 
She  lived  with  clear  eyes  always  focusing  reality 
as  it  appeared  to  her.  Heaven  was  indeed  a 
pleasanter  eternal  fact  than  hell ;  yet  the  place 
of  torment  existed  on  Bible  authority;  and  it 
was  idle  to  suppose  it  existed  for  nothing. 
Grasping  eternity  as  a  truth,  she  occupied  her- 
self in  strenuous  preparation ;  which  preparation 
took  the  form  of  good  works  and  personal  self- 
denial.  Joan  belonged  to  an  order  of  emotional 
creatures  widely  different.  She  loved  the  beau- 
tiful for  its  own  sake,  kept  her  face  to  the  sun 
when  it  shone,  shivered  and  shut  up  like  a  scar- 
let pimpernel  if  bad  weather  was  abroad.  And 
now  a  chastened  sunshine,  daily  growing  stronger, 
shot  through  the  present  clouds,  painted  beauty 
on  their  fringes,  and  lighted  the  darkness  of  their 
recesses  so  that  even  the  secrets  of  suffering  were 
fitfully  revealed.  Joan  grasped  at  new  thoughts, 
the  outcome  of  her  new  road. 

Nature  presently  seemed  of  a  nobler  face,  and 
certain  immemorial  achievements  of  man  also 
Hashed  out  in  the  side-light  of  the  new  convic- 
tions; as  objects,  themselves  inconsiderable,  will 
suddenly  develop  unsuspected  splendors  from 
change  of  standpoint  in  the  beholder.  The 
magic  of  that  Christianity,  which  Joan  now 
received  directly  from  her  Bible,  wrought  and 
embroidered  a  new  significance  into  many 
things.  And  it  worked  upon  none  as  upon 


LYING   PROPHETS  341 

the  old  crosses,  some  perfect  still,  some  ruined 
as  to  arm  or  shaft,  some  quite  worn  out  and 
gnawed  by  time  from  their  original  semblance. 
These  dotted  her  native  land.  Them  she  had 
always  loved,  but  now  they  appeared  marvel- 
ously  transfigured,  and  the  soul  hid  in  their 
granite  beamed  through  it.  Supposing  the  true 
menhirs  to  be  but  ruined  crosses  also,  Joan  shed 
on  them  no  scantier  affection  than  upon  the  less 
venerable  Brito-Celtic  records  of  Christianity. 
Bid  so  to  do,  and  prompted  also  by  her  inclina- 
tion, the  girl  was  wont  to  take  walks  of  some 
length  for  her  health's  sake ;  and  these  had  an 
object  now.  As  her  dead  mother's  legends  came 
back  to  her  memory  and  knit  Nature  to  her  new 
Saviour,  so  the  weather-beaten  stones  brought 
Him  likewise  nearer,  marked  the  goal  of  pre- 
cious daily  pilgrimages,  and  filled  a  sad  young 
life  with  friends. 

Returning  from  a  visit  to  Tremathick  cross, 
where  it  stands  upon  a  little  mound  on  the  St. 
Just  road,  Joan  heard  a  thin  and  well-known 
voice  before  she  saw  the  speaker.  It  was  Mrs. 
Tregenza,  who  had  walked  over  to  drink  tea  and 
satisfy  herself  on  sundry  points  respecting  her 
stepdaughter. 

"Oh,  my  Guy  Faux,  Polly!"  she  said  upon 
arriving,  "I'm  in  a  reg'lar  take  to  be  here, 
though  I  knaws  Michael's  t'other  side  the  isl- 
ands an'  won't  fetch  home  'fore  marnin'.  I've 
corned  'cause  I  couldn't  keep  from  it  no  more. 
How's  her  doin',  poor  tibby  lamb,  wi'  all  them 
piles  o'  money  tu.  Not  that  money  did  ought  to 


342  LYING   PROPHETS 

make  a  differ'nce,  but  it  do,  an'  that's  the  truth, 
an'  it  edn'  no  good  makin'  as  though  it  doan't. 
What  a  world,  to  be  sure!  An'  that  letter  from 
Noy?  I  knaw  you  was  fond  of  en  likewise  in 
your  time.  The  sadness  of  it!  Just  think  o' 
that  mariner  comin'  home  'pon  top  o'  this  mis- 
hap." 

Mary  winced  and  answered  coldly  that  the 
world  was  full  of  mishaps  and  of  sadness. 

"The  man  must  faace  sorrer  same  as  what  us 
all  have  got  to,  Mrs.  Tregenza.  Some  gets  more, 
Home  gets  less,  as  the  sparks  fly  up'ard.  Joe 
Noy's  got  religion  tu." 

Mary  spoke  the  last  words  with  some  bitter- 
ness, which  she  noted  too  late  and  set  against 
herself  for  a  sin. 

"Oh,  my  dearsawl,"  said  Mrs.  Tregenza,  look- 
ing round  nervously,  as  though  she  feared  the 
shadow  of  her  husband  might  be  listening.  * '  Luke 
Gosp'ling's  a  mighty  uncomfortable  business, 
though  I  lay  Tregenza'd  most  kill  me  if  he 
heard  the  word.  'Tedn'  stomachable  to  all, 
an'  I  doubts  whether  'twill  be  a  chain  strong 
enough  to  hold  Joe  Noy,  when  he  comes  back 
to  find  this  coil.  "Tis  a  kicklish  business  an'  I 
wish  'twas  awver.  Joe's  a  fiery  feller  when 
he  reckons  he's  wronged;  an'  there  ban't  no 
balm  to  this  hurt  in  Qosp'ling,  take  it  as  you 
will.  I  tell  you,  in  your  ear  awnly,  that  Luke 
Qosp'lere  graw  ferocious  like  along  o'  the  wicked- 
ness o'  the  airth.  Take  Michael,  as  walks  wf 
the  Lard,  same  as  Moses  done;  an'  the  more  he 
do,  the  ferociouaer  he  do  get.  Religion!  He 


LYING   PROPHETS  3*3 

stinks  o'  religion  worse  than  ever  Newlyn  stinks 
o'  feesh;  he  goes  in  fear  o'  God  to  his  marrow; 
an'  yet  'tis  uncomfortable,  now  an'  then,  to  live 
wi'  such  a  righteous  member.  Theer's  a  sour- 
ness along  of  it.  Luke  Gosp'ling  doan't  soften 
the  heart  of  en." 

"It  should,"  said  Mary. 

"  An's  so  it  should,  but  he  says  the  world's  no 
plaace  for  softness.  He'm  a  terror  to  the  evil- 
doer; an'  he'm  a  terror  to  the  righteous-doer; 
an'  to  hisself  no  less,  I  reckon ;  an'  to  God  A'- 
mighty  tu,  so  like's  not.  The  friends  of  en  be 
as  feared  of  en  as  his  foes  be.  An'  that's  awful 
wisht,  'cause  he  goes  an'  comes  purty  nigh  alone. 
The  Gosp'lers  be  like  fry  flyin'  this  way  an'  that 
'fore  a  school  o'  mackerl  when  Michael's  among 
'em.  Even  minister,  he  do  shrivel  a  inch  or  two 
'longside  o'  Michael.  I've  seen  en  wras'lin'  wi' 
the  Word  same  as  Jacob  wras'led  wi'  the  angel. 
An'  yet,  why?  Theer's  a  man  chosen  for  glory 
this  five-an' -forty  years,  an'  he  knaws  it  so  well 
as  I  do,  or  any  wan." 

"He  knaws  nothin'  o'  the  sort.  The  best  ab- 
bun  no  right  to  say  it,"  declared  Mary. 

Then  Mrs.  Tregenza  fired  up,  for  she  resented 
any  criticism  on  this  subject  other  than  her  own. 

"An'  why  not,  Polly  Chirgwin?  Who's  a 
right  to  doubt  it?  Not  you,  I  reckon.  Ban't 
your  plaace  to  judge  a  man  as  walks  wi'  God, 
like  Moses  done.  If  Michael  edn'  saved,  then 
theer's  no  sawl  saved  'pon  land  or  sea.  You 
talk — a  young  maiden!  His  sawl  was  bleedin' 
an*  his  hands  raw  a  batterin'  the  gate  o'  heaven 


344  LYING    PROPHETS 

'fore  you  was  born,  Polly — ay,  an'  he'd  got  the 
bettermost  o'  the  devil  wance  for  all  'fore  you 
was  conceived  in  the  womb;  you  mind  that." 

"Us  caan't  get  the  bettermost  o'  the  devil 
wance  for  all,"  said  Mary,  changing  the  issue, 
"no — not  no  more'n  us  can  wash  our  skin  clean 
wance  for  all.  But  you  an'  me  thinks  differ'nt 
an'  all  us  shall,  Mrs.  Tregenza." 

"Iss,  though  I  s'pose  'tis  the  same  devil  as 
takes  backslidin'  church  or  chapel  folks.  Let 
that  bide  now.  Wheer's  Joan  to?  I've  got  to 
thank  'e  kindly  for  lookin'  arter  Tom  t'other 
Sunday  night.  'Tis  things  like  that  makes  re- 
ligion uncomfortable.  But  you  gived  the  bwoy 
some  tidy  belly-timber  in  the  small  hours  o'  day, 
an'  he  corned  home  dog- tired,  but  none  the  worse. 
An'  thank  'e  for  they  apples  an'  cream  an'  eggs, 
which  I'm  sorry  they  had  sich  poor  speed.  A 
butivul  basket  as  hurt  me  to  the  heart  to  paart 
with.  But  I  wasn't  asked.  No  offense,  I  hope, 
'bout  it?  Maybe  uncle  forgot  'twas  the  Lard's 
day?" 

"He'm  the  last  ever  to  do  that." 

Joan  entered  at  this  point  in  the  conversation 
and  betrayed  some  slight  emotion  as  her  step- 
mother kissed  her.  It  was  nearly  five  months 
since  they  had  met,  and  Mary  now  departed,  leav- 
ing them  to  discuss  Joan's  physical  condition. 

"I  be  doin'  clever,"  said  Joan,  "never  felt 
righter  in  body." 

Mrs.  Tregenza  poured  forth  good  advice,  and 
after  a  lengthy  conversation  came  to  a  secret 
ambition  and  broached  it  with  caution. 


LYING   PROPHETS  345 

"I  called  to  mind  some  baaby's  things — shoes, 
clouts,  frocks  an'  sich-like  as  I've  got  snug  in 
lavender  to  home.  They  was  all  flam-new  for 
Tom,  an'  I  judged  I'd  have  further  use  for  'em, 
but  never  did.  Theer  they  be,  even  to  a  furry- 
cloth,  as  none  doan't  ever  use  nowadays,  though 
my  mother  did,  and  thot  well  on't.  So  I  did  tu. 
'Tis  just  a  bit  o'  crimson  red  tailor's  cloth  to 
cover  the  soft  plaace  'pon  a  lil  baaby's  head 
'fore  the  bones  of  en  graw  together.  An'  I 
reckon  'tis  better  to  have  it  then  not.  I  seem 
you'd  do  wise  to  take  the  whole  kit;  an'  you'm 
that  well-to-do  that  'twouldn'  be  worth  thinkin' 
'bout.  'T  would  be  cheaper'n  a  shop ;  an' theer's 
everything  a  royal  duke's  cheel  could  want;  an' 
a  butivul  robe  wi'  lacework  cut  'pon  it,  an'  lil 
bits  o'  ribbon  to  tie  in  the  armholes  Sundays. 
They 'm  vitty  clothes." 

Joan's  eyes  softened  to  a  misty  dreaminess 
before  this  aspect  of  the  time  to  come.  She  had 
thought  so  little  about  the  baby  and  all  matters 
pertaining  thereto,  that  every  day  now  brought 
with  it  mental  novelty  and  a  fresh  view  of  that 
experience  stored  for  her  in  the  future. 

"Iss,  I  do  mind  they  things  when  Tom  was 
in  'em.  What  be  the  value  in  money?" 

Mrs.  Tregenza  answered  shyly  and  almost 
respectfully. 

"Well,  'tis  so  difficult  to  say,  not  bein'  a  reg'- 
lar  seller  o'  things.  They  cost  wi'out  the  robe, 
as  was  a  gift  from  Mrs.  Blight,  more'n  five 
pound." 

"Take  ten  pound,  then.     I'll  tell  uncle." 


34<>  LYING    PROPHETS 

Thomasin's  red  tongue-tip  crept  along  her  lips 
and  her  bright  eyes  blinked,  but  conscience  was 
too  strong. 

"No,  no — a  sight  too  much — too  much  by 
half.  I'll  let  'e  have  the  lot  for  a  fi'-pun'  note. 
An'  I'd  like  it  to  be  a  new  wan,  if  'tis  the  same 
to  you." 

Joan  agreed  to  this,  and  ten  minutes  after- 
ward Uncle  Chirgwin  was  opening  his  cash-box 
and  handing  Thomasin  the  snowy,  crackling 
fragment  she  desired. 

"  'Tis  the  fust  bit  o'  money  ever  I  kept  unbe- 
knawnst  to  Michael,"  she  said,  "an',  'pon  me 
life,  Chirgwin,  I  be  a'most  'feared  on't." 

"You'll  soon  get  awver  that,"  declared  Uncle 
Thomas.  "I'll  send  the  trap  home  with  'e,  an' 
you  can  look  out  the  frippery;  an'  you  might 
send  a  nice  split  hake  back-along  with  it,  if 
you've  got  the  likes  of  sich  a  thing  gwaine  beg- 
gin'  to  be  ate." 

Presently  Mrs.  Tregenza  drove  away  and  Joan 
went  to  her  room  to  think.  Magic  effects  had 
risen  from  the  spectacle  of  the  well -remembered 
face,  from  the  sound  of  the  sharp,  high  voice. 
A  new  sensation  grew  out  of  them  for  Joan. 
Home  rose  like  a  vision,  with  the  sighing  of  the 
sea,  the  crying  of  the  gulls,  the  musical  rattle 
of  blocks  in  the  bay,  the  clink,  clink  of  picks  in 
the  quarry,  the  occasional  thunder  of  a  blast. 
Many  odors  were  with  her :  the  smell  of  tar  and 
twine  and  stores,  the  scent  of  drying  fish.  She 
saw  the  low  cliffs  all  gemmed  at  this  season  with 
moon-flowers  —  the  great  white  convolvulus 


LYING   PROPHETS  347 

which  twinkled  there.  A  red  and  purple  fuch- 
sia in  the  garden,  had  blossomed  also.  She  could 
see  the  bees  climbing  into  its  drooping  bells. 
She  remembered  their  music,  as  it  murmured 
drowsily  from  dead  and  gone  summers,  and 
sounded  sweeter  than  the  song  of  the  bees  at 
Drift.  She  heard  the  tinkle  of  a  stream  outside 
the  cottage,  where  it  ran  under  the  hedge 
through  a  shute  and  emptied  itself  into  a  great 
half -barrel;  and  then,  turning  her  thoughts  to 
the  house,  her  own  attic,  with  the  view  of  St. 
Michael's  Mount  and  the  bay,  rose  in  thought, 
with  every  detail  distinct,  even  to  the  glass 
scent-bottle  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  the  colored 
print  of  John  Wesley  being  rescued  in  his  child- 
hood from  a  burning  house.  These  and  kindred 
memories  made  a  live  picture  to  Joan's  eyes. 
For  the  first  time  since  she  had  left  her  home 
the  girl  found  in  her  heart  a  desire  to  return  to 
it.  She  awoke  next  morning  with  the  old  recol- 
lections increased  and  multiplied;  and  the  sensa- 
tion bred  from  continued  contemplation  was  the 
sensation  of  a  loss. 


348  LYING    PROPHETS 


BOOK    THREE 

CHANCE 


CHAPTER  ONE 

OF     THE     CROSSES 

THE  significance  of  the  ancient  crosses  in 
Joan  Tregenza's  latest  phase  of  mental  growth 
becomes  much  finer  after  learning  somewhat 
more  concerning  them  than  she  could  ever 
know.  The  ephemeral  life  of  one  unhappy 
woman  viewed  from  these  granite  records  of 
Brito-Celtic  pagan  and  Christian  faith,  examined 
in  its  relation  to  these  hoary  splinters  of  stone, 
grows  an  object  of  some  pathetic  interest.  Such 
memorials  of  the  past  as  are  here  indicated, 
vary  mightily  in  age.  The  Christian  monu- 
ments are  not  older  than  the  fifth  century,  but 
many  have  been  proved  palimpsests  and  rise 
on  pagan  foundations  dating  from  a  time  far 
more  ancient  than  their  own.  The  relics  are 
divided  into  two  classes  by  antiquarians  :  Pillar 
Stones  and  Sculptured  Crosses.  The  former 
occur  throughout  the  Celtic  divisions  of  Great 
Britain,  and  are  sometimes  marked  with  the 
Chi  Rho  monogram,  or  early  rude  cross  form. 
In  most  cases  these  earlier  erections  indicated 
a  grave,  while  the  sculptured  crosses  either  de- 


LYING   PROPHETS  349 

noted  boundaries  of  sanctuary,  or  were  raised 
promiscuously  where  men  and  women  passed  or 
congregated,  their  object  being  to  encourage  de- 
votion and  lead  human  thoughts  heavenward. 
The  designs  on  these  monuments  are  usually  a 
bad  imitation  of  Irish  key  patterns  and  spirals ; 
but  many,  in  addition,  show  crucifixes  in  their 
midst,  with  pre-Norman  figures  depicting  the 
Christ  in  a  loose  tunic  or  shirt,  his  head  erect 
and  his  body  alive,  after  the  Byzantine  fashion. 
The  mediaeval  mode  of  carving  a  corpse  on  the 
cross  is  of  much  later  date  and  may  not  be  ob- 
served before  the  twelfth  century. 

More  than  three  hundred  of  these  sculptured 
crosses  ha\re  been  discovered  within  the  confines 
of  Cornwall.  In  churchyards  and  churchyard 
walls  they  stand;  they  have  even  been  discov- 
ered wrought  into  the  fabric  of  the  churches 
themselves;  the  brown  moor  likewise  knows 
them,  for  they  stud  its  wildernesses  and  rise  at 
the  crossways  of  many  lonely  roads ;  while  else- 
where, villages  hold  them  in  their  hearts,  and 
the  emblem  rises  daily  before  the  sight  of  gener- 
ation upon  generation.  In  hedges  they  are  also 
to  be  seen,  and  in  fields;  many  have  been 
rescued  from  base  uses;  and  all  have  stood 
through  the  centuries  as  the  sign  and  testimony 
of  primitive  Cornish  faith,  even  as  St.  Piran's 
white  cross  on  a  black  ground,  the  first  banner 
of  Cornwall,  bore  aloft  the  same  symbol  in 
days  when  the  present  emblem,  with  its  fifteen 
bezants  and  its  motto,  "One  and  All,"  was  not 
dimly  dreamed  of. 


350  LYINU    PROPHETS 

These  ancient  crosses  now  rose  like  gray 
sentinels  on  the  gray  life  of  Joan  Tregenza. 
At  Drift  she  was  happily  placed  among  them, 
and  many,  not  necessary  to  separately  name, 
lay  within  the  limit  of  her  daily  wanderings, 
and  her  superstitious  nature,  working  with  the 
new-born  faith,  wove  precious  mystery  into 
them.  Much  she  loved  the  more  remote  and 
lonely  stones,  for  beside  them,  hidden  from  the 
world's  eye,  she  could  pray.  Those  others  about 
which  circled  human  lives  attracted  her  less  fre- 
quently. To  her  the  crosses  were  sentient  creat- 
ures above  the  fret  of  Time,  eternally  watching 
human  affairs.  The  dawn  of  art  as  shown  in 
early  religious  sculpture  generally  amuses  an 
ignorant  mind,  but,  to  Joan,  the  little  shirted 
figures  of  her  new  Saviour,  which  opened  blind 
eyes  on  the  stones  she  loved,  were  matter  for 
sorrow  rather  than  amusement.  They  did  by  no 
means  repel  her,  despite  the  superficial  hideous- 
ness  of  them;  indeed,  with  a  sort  of  intuition, 
Joan  told  herself  that  human  hands  had  fash- 
ioned them  somewhere  in  the  dawn  of  the  world 
when  yet  her  Lord's  blood  was  newly  shed,  at  a 
time  before  men  had  learned  skill  to  make  beau- 
tiful things. 

Once,  beside  the  foot  of  the  cross  which  stood 
in   Sancreed*    churchyard   wall,   between    two 


*  This  fine  sculptured  cross  has  since  these  events 
been  placed  within  the  said  churchyard,  at  the  desire  of 
Mr.  A.  <}.  Langdon,  the  greatest  living  authority  on  the 
subject  of  Cornish  remains. 


LYING   PROPHETS  351 

tree-trunks  under  a  dome  of  leaves,  the  girl 
found  growing  a  spotted  persicaria,  and  the 
force  of  the  discovery  at  such  a  spot  was  great 
to  her.  Familiar  with  the  legend  of  the  purple 
mark  on  every  leaf  of  the  plant,  nothing  doubt- 
ing that  it  had  aforetime  grown  at  the  foot  of 
the  true  cross  and  there  been  splashed  with  the 
blood  of  her  Master,  Joan  accepted  the  old  story 
that  henceforth  the  weed  was  granted  this  proud 
livery  and  badge  of  blood.  And  now,  finding  it 
here,  the  fable  revived  with  added  truth  and 
conviction,  the  legend  of  the  persicaria  was  as 
true  to  her  as  that  other  of  the  Lord's  resurrec- 
tion from  death.  Thus  her  views  of  Nature  suf- 
fered some  approach  to  debasement  in  a  new  di- 
rection, but  this  degradation,  so  to  call  it,  brought 
mighty  comfort  to  her  soul,  daily  rounded  the 
ragged  edges  of  life,  woke  merciful  trust  and 
belief  in  a  promised  life  of  bliss  beyond  the 
grave,  and  embroidered  thereupon  a  patchwork, 
not  unbeautiful,  built  of  fairy  folk-lore,  saintly 
legend  and  venerable  myth.  Her  credulous  nat- 
ure accepted  right  and  left;  anything  that  har- 
bored a  promise  or  was  lovely  or  wonderful  in 
itself  found  acceptance;  and  Joan  read  into  the 
very  pulses  of  the  summer  world  the  truth  as 
she  now  understood  it.  Cornwall  suddenly  be- 
came a  new  Holy  Land  to  the  girl.  Here  the 
circumstances  of  life  chimed  with  those  recorded 
in  the  New  Testament,  and  it  was  an  easy  men- 
tal achievement  to  transplant  her  Saviour  from 
a  historical  environment  into  her  own.  She 
pictured  Him  as  walking  amid  Uncle  Chirg win's 


35X*  LYING    PROPHETS 

ripening  corn;  she  saw  Him  place  His  hands  on 
the  heads  of  the  little  children  at  cottage  doors; 
she  imagined  Him  standing  upon  one  of  the 
stranded  luggers  in  Newlyn  harbor  with  the 
gulls  floating  round  His  head  and  the  fisher- 
men listening  to  his  utterance. 

The  growing  mother  instincts  in  Joan  also 
developed  about  this  season.  They  leaped  from 
comparative  quiescence  into  activity ;  they  may 
indeed  be  recorded  as  having  arisen  within  her 
after  a  manner  not  less  sudden  than  had  the  new 
faith  itself,  which  was  exhibited  to  you  as  blos- 
soming with  an  abruptness  almost  violent,  be- 
cause it  thus  occurred.  Now  most  channels  of 
thought  led  Joan  to  her  unborn  infant,  and  there 
came  at  length  an  occasion  upon  which  she  prayed 
for  the  first  time  that  her  child  might  be  justified 
in  its  existence. 

The  petition  was  raised  where,  in  the  past, 
she  had  uttered  one  widely  different:  at  the 
altar-stone  in  the  ruined  baptistery  of  Saint 
Madron.  Thither  on  a  day  in  early  August, 
Joan  traveled  by  short  cuts  over  fields  which 
brought  the  chapel  within  reach  of  Drift.  The 
scene  had  changed  from  that  of  her  former  visit, 
and  summer  was  keeping  the  promises  of  spring. 
Yellow  stars  of  biting  stone-crop  covered  the 
walls  of  the  ruin;  the  fruit  of  the  blackthorn 
was  growing  purple,  of  the  hawthorn,  red ;  the 
lesser  dodder  crept,  like  pink  lacework,  over 
furze  and  heather;  bright-eyed  euphrasy  and 
sweet  wild  thyme  were  murmured  over  by 
many  bees;  at  the  altar's  foot  grew  brake  fern 


LYING    PROPHETS  353 

and  towering  foxgloves ;  while  upon  the  sacred 
stone  itself  brambles  laid  their  fruit,  a  few  ripe 
blackberries  shining  from  clusters  of  red  and 
green.  Seeding  grasses  and  docks  likewise 
flourished  within  the  little  chapel,  and  ragged 
robins  and  dandelions  brought  the  best  beauty 
they  had.  Among  which  matters,  hid  in  loneli- 
ness, to  the  sound  of  that  hymn  of  life  which 
rises  in  a  whisper  from  all  earth  at  summer 
noon,  Joan  prayed  for  her  baby  that  it  might 
not  be  born  in  vain. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

HOME 

AMONG  the  varied  ambitions  now  manifested 
by  Joan  was  one  already  hinted  at — one  which 
increased  to  the  displacement  of  smaller  inter- 
ests :  she  much  desired  to  see  again  her  home,  if 
but  for  the  space  of  an  hour.  The  days  and 
weeks  of  an  unusually  smiling  summer  brought 
autumn,  and  with  it  the  cutting  of  golden  grain ; 
but  the  bustle  and  custom  of  harvest  failed  to 
draw  Joan  among  her  kind .  Human  life  faded 
somewhat,  even  to  the  verge  of  unreality  with 
her.  Silence  fell  upon  her,  and  a  gravity  of 
demeanor  which  was  new  to  the  beholders. 


354  LYING   PROPHETS 

Uncle  Chirgwin  and  Mary  were  alike  puzzled  at 
this  sign,  and,  misunderstanding  the  nature  of 
the  change,  feared  that  the  girl's  spiritual  de- 
velopment must  be  meeting  unseen  opposition. 
Whims  and  moods  were  proper  to  her  condition, 
so  the  farmer  maintained;  but  the  fancy  of 
eternally  sequestering  herself,  the  conceit  of 
regarding  as  friends  those  ancient  stones  of  the 
moor  and  crossroads,  was  beyond  his  power  to 
appreciate.  To  Mary  such  conduct  presented 
even  greater  elements  of  mystery.  Yet  the  fact 
faced  them,  and  the  crosses  came  in  time  to  be 
one  of  the  few  subjects  which  Joan  cared  to  talk 
upon.  Even  then  it  was  to  her  uncle  alone  she 
opened  her  heart  concerning  them :  Mary  never 
unlocked  the  inner  nature  of  her  cousin. 

"I  got  names  o'  my  awn  for  each  of  'em," 
Joan  confessed,  "an'  I  seem  they  do  knaw  my 
comin'  an'  my  secrets  an'  my  troubles.  They 
teach  me  the  force  o'  keepin'  my  mouth  shut; 
an'  much  mixin'  wi'  other  folks  arter  the  silence 
o'  the  stones  'mazes  me — men  an'  wummen  do 
chatter  so." 

"An*  so  did  you,  lassie,  an'  weern't  none  the 
worse.  Us  doan't  hear  your  purty  voice  enough 
now." 

"'Tis  better  thinkin'  than  talkin',  Uncle 
Thomas.  I  abbun  nort  to  talk  'bout,  you 
see,  but  a  power  o'  things  to  think  of.  The 
auld  stones  speaks  to  me  solemn,  though  they 
can't  talk.  They'm  wise,  voiceless  things  an' 
brings  God  closer.  An'  me,  an'  all  the  world 
o'  grass  an'  flowers,  an'  the  HI  chirruping  grig- 


LYING   PROPHETS  355 

gans  *  do  seem  so  young  beside  'em;  but  they'm 
big  an'  kind.  They  warm  my  heart  somethin' 
braave ;  an'  they  let  the  gray  mosses  cling  to 
'em  an'  the  dinky  blue  butterflies  open  an'  shut 
their  wings  'pon  'em,  an'  the  bramble  climb 
around  theer  arms.  They've  tawld  me  a  many 
good  things;  an'  fust  as  I  must  be  humbler  in 
my  bearin'.  "Wance  I  said  I'd  forgive  faither, 
an'  I  thot  'twas  a  fair  thing  to  say ;  now  I  awnly 
wants  en  to  forgive  me  an'  let  me  come  to  my 
time  wi'  no  man's  anger  hot  agin  me.  If  I  could 
win  just  a  peep  o'  home.  I  may  never  see  it  no 
more  arter,  'cause  things  might  fall  out  bad  wi' 
me." 

"  'Tis  nachrul  as  you  harp  on  it;  an',  blame 
me,  if  I  sees  why  you  shouldn'  go  down-long. 
Us  might  ride  in  the  cart  an'  no  harm  done." 

"Ay,  do  'e  come,  theer's  a  dear  sawl.  Just 
to  look  upon  the  plaace — " 

"As  for  that,  if  us  goes,  us  must  see  the  mat- 
ter through  an'  give  your  faither  the  chance  to 
do  what's  right  by  'e." 

"He'll  not  change;  but  still  I'd  have  en  hear 
me  tell  I'm  in  sorrer  for  the  ill  I  brot  'pon  his 
name." 

"Ay,  facks!  'Tis  a  wise  word  an'  a  right. 
Us'll  go  this  very  arternoon.  You  get  a  odd 
pound  or  so  o'  scald  cream,  an'  I'll  see  to  a 
basket  o'  fruit  wi'  some  o'  they  scoured  necterns, 
as  ban't  no  good  for  sellin',  but  eats  so  well  as 
t'others.  Iss,  we'll  go  so  soon  as  dinner  be  swal- 

*  Grasshoppers. 


356  LYING    PROPHETS 

lowed.     Wishes  doan't  run  in  a  body's  head  for 
nothin'." 

Uncle  Chirgwin's  old  market-cart,  with  the 
gray  horse  and  the  squeaking  wheel,  rattled  off 
to  Newlyn  some  two  hours  later,  and  the  ordeal, 
longed  for  at  a  distance,  towered  tremendous 
and  less  beautiful  at  nearer  approach.  When 
they  started,  Joan  had  hoped  that  her  father 
might  be  at  home ;  as  they  neared  Newlyn  she 
felt  a  growing  relief  in  the  reflection  that  his 
presence  ashore  was  exceedingly  improbable. 
Her  anxieties  were  forgotten  for  a  few  moments 
at  sight  of  the  well-known  outlines  of  the  hills 
above  the  village.  Now  arrish-mows  —  little 
thatched  stacks  some  eight  feet  high — glim- 
mered in  the  pale  gilded  stubbles  of  the  fields; 
the  orchards  gleamed  with  promise;  the  foliage 
of  the  elms  was  at  its  darkest  before  the  golden 
dawn  of  autumn.  Well- remembered  sights  rose 
on  Joan's  misty  eyes  with  the  music  proper  to 
them ;  then  came  the  smell  of  the  sea  and  the 
jolting  of  the  cart,  going  slowly  over  rough 
stones.  Narrow,  steep  streets  and  sharp  cor- 
ners had  to  be  traversed  not  only  with  cau- 
tion but  at  a  speed  which  easily  placed  Joan 
within  the  focus  of  many  glances.  Troubles 
and  humiliation  of  a  sort  wholly  unexpected 
burst  suddenly  upon  her,  bringing  the  girl's 
mind  rudely  back  from  dreams  born  of  the  fa- 
miliar scene.  Newlyn  women  bobbed  about 
their  cottage  doors  with  hum  and  stir,  and 
every  gossip's  mouth  was  full  of  news  at  this 
entry.  Doors  and  windows  filled  with  curious 


LYING   PROPHETS  357 

heads  and  bright  eyes;  there  was  some  laughter 
in  the  air;  fishermen  got  up  with  sidelong  looks 
from  the  old  masts  or  low  walls  whereon,  dur- 
ing hours  of  leisure,  they  sat  in  rows  and 
smoked.  Joan,  all  aflame,  prayed  Uncle  Chirg- 
win  to  hasten,  which  he  did  to  the  best  of  his 
power ;  but  their  progress  was  of  necessity  slow, 
and  local  curiosity  enjoyed  full  scope  and  play. 
Tears  came  to  the  girl's  eyes  long  before  the  vil- 
lage was  traversed;  then,  through  a  mist  of 
them,  she  saw  a  hand  stretched  to  meet  her  own 
and  heard  a  voice  which  rang  kindly  on  her 
ears.  It  was  Sally  Trevennick,  who  faced  the 
spiteful  laughter  without  flinching  and  said  a 
few  loud,  friendly  words,  though  indeed  her 
well-meant  support  brought  scant  comfort  with 
it  for  the  victim. 

"Lard  sakes!  Joan,  doan't  'e  take  on  so  at 
them  buzzin'  fools!  'Tedn'  the  trouble,  'tis  the 
money  make  'em  clatter!  Bah!  Wheer's  the 
wan  of  them  black-browed  gals  as  'alf  the  money 
wouldn'  buy?  You  keep  a  bold  faace,  an'  doan't 
let  'em  see  as  their  sniggerin's  aught  more  to  'e 
than  dog-barking." 

"Us'll  be  theer  in  a  minute,"  added  Mr.  Chirg- 
win,  "an'  I'll  drive  back  agin  by  Mouzle;  then 
you'll  'scape  they  she-cats.  I  never  thot  as 
you'd  a  got  to  stand  that  dressin'  down  in  a 
plaace  what's  knawed  you  an'  yours  these  many 
years." 

Joan  asked  Sally  Trevennick  whether  she  could 
say  if  Gray  Michael  was  on  the  water,  and  she 
felt  very  genuine  thankfulness  on  learning  that 


358  LYING    PROPHETS 

Sally  believed  so.  Two  minutes  later  the  spring- 
cart  reached  level  ground  above  the  sea,  then, 
whipping  up  his  horse,  Uncle  Chirgwin  increased 
the  pace,  and  very  quickly  Joan  found  herself  at 
the  door  of  home. 

Thomasin  was  within,  and,  hearing  the  sound 
of  wheels  cease  before  the  cottage,  came  forth  to 
learn  who  had  arrived.  Her  surprise  was  only 
equaled  by  her  alarm  at  sight  of  Joan  and  Mr. 
Chirgwin.  So  frightened  indeed  did  she  appear 
that  both  the  newcomers  supposed  Mr.  Tregenza 
must  be  within.  Such,  however,  was  not  the 
case,  and  Joan's  stepmother  explained  the  nature 
of  her  fears. 

"He'm  to  sea,  but  the  whole  world  do  knaw 
you  be  come,  I'll  lay;  an'  he'll  knawtu.  Sure's 
death  some  long-tongued  female  will  babble  it  to 
en  'fore  he's  off  the  quay.  Then  what?" 

"  'Tedn'  your  fault  anyways,"  declared  Uncle 
Thomas.  "Joan's  wisht  an'  sad  to  see  home 
agin,  as  was  right  an'  proper;  an'  in  her  pres- 
ent way  she've  got  to  be  humored.  So  I've 
brot  her,  an'  what  blame  comes  o't  my  shoul- 
ders is  more'n  broad  enough  to  cany.  I  wish, 
for  my  paart,  as  Michael  was  home,  so's  I  might 
faace  en  when  Joan  says  what  her've  corned  to 
say.  I  be  gwaine  to  Penzance  now,  'pon  a  mat- 
ter o'  business,  an'  I'll  come  back  here  in  an 
hour  or  so  an'  drink  a  dish  o'  tea  along  with  you 
'fore  we  staarts." 

He  drove  away  immediately,  and  for  a  while 
Joan  was  left  with  Mrs.  Tregenza.  The  latter's 
curiosity  presently  soothed  her  fears,  and  almost 


LYING   PROPHETS  359 

the  first  thing  she  began  to  talk  about  was  that 
"will  and  testament"  which  she  had  long  since 
urged  upon  her  stepdaughter.  But  the  girl, 
moving  about  in  the  well-known  orchard,  had 
no  attention  for  anything  but  the  sights,  sounds 
and  scents  around  her.  Silently  and  not  unhap- 
pily she  basked  in  old  sensations  renewed ;  and 
they  filled  her  heart.  Meanwhile  Thomasin 
kept  up  a  buzz  of  conversation  concerning 
Joan's  money  and  Joan's  future. 

"Touchin'  that  bit  o'  writin' !  Do  'e  see  to  it, 
soas;  'tis  awnly  wisdom.  Theer's  allus  a  fear 
wi'  the  fust,  specially  in  the  case  o'  a  pin-tail 
built  lass  like  you  be.  An'  if  you  was  took, 
which  God  forbid,  theer'd  be  that  mort  o' 
money  to  come  to  Michael,  him  bein'  your 
faither — that  is,  s'pose  the  cheel  was  took  tu, 
which  God  forbid  likewise.  An'  he'd  burn  it — 
every  note — I  mean  Michael.  Now  if  you  was 
to  name  Tom — just  in  case  o'  accidents — ? 
He'm  of  your  awn  blood  by's  faither." 

"But  my  baaby  must  be  fust." 

"In  coorse  er  must.  'Tis  lawful  an'  right. 
Love  childern  do  come  as  sweet  an'  innercent 
on  to  the  airth  as  them  born  o'  wedlock — purty 
sawls.  'Tis  the  fashion  to  apprentice  'em  to 
theer  faithers  mostly,  an'  they  be  a  sort  o'  poor 
cousins  o'  the  rightful  fam'ly;  but  your  lil  wan 
— well— theer  edn'  gwaine  to  be  any  'poor  cousin* 
talk  'bout  en — if  en  do  live.  But  I  was  talkin' 
o' the  will." 

"I've  writ  it  out  all  fair  in  ink  'cordin'  as 
Uncle  Chirgwin  advised,"  said  Joan.  "Fust 


300  LYING    PROPHETS 

comes  my  cheel,  then  Tom.  Uncle  sez  theer 
ban't  no  call  to  name  others.  I  wanted  his- 
self  to  take  a  half  on  it,  but  he  said  theer 
weren't  no  need  an'  he  wouldn't  nohow." 

"Quite  right,"  declared  Thomasiii.  "Iss  fay! 
He  be  a  plain  dealer  an*  a  good  righteous  man." 

Joan's  thoughts  meanwhile  were  mainly  con- 
cerned with  her  surroundings,  and  when  she  had 
walked  thrice  about  the  garden,  visited  the  pigs, 
peeped  into  the  tool-house  to  smell  the  paint  and 
twine,  noted  the  ripening  plums  and  a  promis- 
ing little  crop  of  beets  coming  on  in  the  field  be- 
yond, she  went  indoors.  There  a  pair  of  Michael's 
tall  sea -boots  stood  in  the  chimney-corner,  with 
a  small  pair  of  Tom's  beside  them ;  the  old,  well- 
remembered  crockery  shone  from  the  dresser; 
geraniums  and  begonias  filled  the  window ;  on  a 
basket  at  the  right  of  the  fireside  stood  a  small 
blue  plate  with  gold  lettering  upon  it  and  a  pict- 
ure of  Saltash  Bridge  in  the  middle.  The  legend 
ran — A  present  for  a  good  girl.  It  was  a  gift 
from  her  father  to  Joan,  on  her  tenth  birthday. 
She  picked  it  up,  polished  it,  and  asked  for  a 
piece  of  paper  to  wrap  it  in,  designing  to  carry 
the  trifle  away  with  her. 

Every  old  nook  and  corner  had  been  visited 
by  the  time  that  Uncle  Chirgwin  returned. 
Then  all  sat  down  to  eat  and  drink,  and  the 
taste  of  the  tea  went  still  further  to  quicken 
Joan's  memory. 

Mrs.  Tregenza  gave  them  such  information  as 
suggested  itself  to  her  during  the  progress  of  the 
meal.  She  was  chiefly  concerned  about  her  son. 


LYING   PROPHETS  361 

"Cruel  'ard  worked  he  be,  sure  'nough,"  she 
murmured.  "  'Tis  contrary  to  reason  a  boy  can 
graw  when  he's  made  to  sweat  same  as  Tom  be. 
An'  short  for  his  age  as  'tis.  But  butivul  broad, 
an'  'mazin'  strong,  an'  a  fine  sight  to  see  en  ate 
his  food.  Then  the  Gosp'lers  —  well,  they'm 
cold  friends  to  the  young.  A  bwoy  like  him 
caan't  feel  religion  in  his  blood  same  as  grawed 
folks." 

"Small  blame  to  en,"  said  Joan  promptly. 
"Let  en  go  to  church  an'  hear  proper  holy  min- 
isters in  black  an'  white  gownds,  an'  proper 
words  set  down  in  print,  same  as  what  I  do 
now." 

"I'd  as  soon  not  have  my  flaish  creep  down 
the  spine  'pon  Sundays  as  not,"  confessed 
Thomasin,  "but  Michael's  Michael,  an'  so 
all's  said." 

Uncle  Chirgwin  went  to  smoke  a  pipe  and 
water  his  horse  at  this  juncture;  but  he  re- 
turned within  less  than  ten  minutes. 

"It's  blowin',"  he  said,  "an'  the  fust  skew  o' 
gray  rain's  breakin'  over  the  sea.  I  knawed 
'twas  comin'  by  my  corns.  The  bwoats  is  sail- 
in'  back  tu — a  frothin'  in  proper  ower  the  lumpy 
water." 

"Then  you'd  best  be  movin',"  said  Mrs.  Tre- 
genza.  "I  judged  bad-fashioned  weather  was 
comin'  tu  when  I  touched  the  string  o'  seaweed 
as  hangs  by  the  winder.  'Tis  clammy  to  the 
hand.  God  save  us!"  she  continued,  turning 
from  the  door,  "theer's  ourn  at  the  moorin's! 
They've  been  driv'  back  'fore  us  counted  'pon 


362  LYING   PROPHETS 

seein'  'em  by  the  promise  of  storm.  Get  you 
gone,  for  the  love  o'  the  Lard ;  an'  go  Mouzle 
way,  else  you'll  run  on  top  o'  Michael  for  sure." 

"Ban't  no  odds  if  us  do.  Joan  had  a  mind  to 
see  en,"  answered  the  farmer;  but  Joan  spoke 
for  herself.  She  explained  that  she  now  wished 
to  depart  without  seeing  her  father  if  possible. 

It  was,  however,  too  late  to  escape  the  meet- 
ing. Even  as  the  twain  bade  Mrs.  Tregenza  a 
hasty  farewell,  heavy  feet  sounded  on  the  cob- 
bles at  the  cottage  door  and  a  moment  later  Tre- 
genza entered.  His  oilskins  were  wet  and  shiny ; 
half  a  dozen  herrings,  threaded  through  the  gills 
on  a  string,  hung  from  his  right  hand. 


LYING   PROPHETS 


CHAPTER   THREE 
"THE   LORD   is   KING" 

MICHAEL  TREGENZA  instantly  observed  Joan 
where  she  sat  by  the  window,  and,  seeing  her, 
stood  still.  The  fish  fell  from  his  hand  and 
dropped  slithering  in  a  heap  on  the  stone  floor. 
There  was  a  silence  so  great  that  all  could  hear 
a  patter  of  drops  from  the  fisherman's  oilskins 
as  the  water  rolled  to  the  ground.  At  the  same 
moment  gusts  of  rising  wind  shook  the  casement 
and  bleared  the  glass  in  it  with  rain.  Joan,  as 
she  rose  and  stood  near  Mr.  Chirgwin,  heard  her 
heart  thump  and  felt  the  blood  leap.  Then  she 
nerved  herself,  came  a  little  forward,  and  spoke 
before  her  father  had  time  to  do  so.  He  had 
now  turned  his  gaze  from  her  and  was  looking 
at  the  farmer. 

"Faither,"  she  said  very  gently,  "faither 
dearie,  forgive  me.  I  begs  it  so  hard;  'tis  the 
thing  I  wants  most.  I  feared  to  see  'e,  but  you 
was  sent  off  the  waters  that  I  might.  I  corned 
in  tremblin'  an'  sorrer  to  see  wheer  I've  lived 
most  all  my  short  days.  I'm  that  differ'nt  now 
to  what  I  was.  Uncle  Thomas'll  tell  'e.  I  know 
I'm  a  sinful,  wicked  wummon,  an'  I'm  heart- 
broke  day  an'  night  for  the  shame  I've  brot  'pon 


364  LYING   PROPHETS 

my  folks.  I'll  trouble  'e  no  more  if  'e  will  awnly 
say  the  word.  Please,  please,  faither,  for- 
give." 

She  stood  without  moving,  as  did  he.  Uncle 
Chirgwin  watched  silently.  Mrs.  Tregenza  made 
some  stir  at  the  fire  to  conceal  her  anxiety.  No 
relenting  glimmer  softened  either  the  steel  of 
Gray  Michael's  eyes  or  one  line  in  his  great 
face.  The  furrows  knotted  between  his  eye- 
brows and  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  His  sou'- 
wester still  covered  his  head.  At  his  mouth  was 
a  down-drawing,  as  of  disgust  before  some  offen- 
sive sight  or  smell,  and  the  hand  which  had  held 
the  fish  was  clinched.  He  swallowed  and  found 
speech  hard.  Then  Joan  spoke  again. 

"Uncle's  forgived  me,  an'  Mary,  an'  Tom, 
an'  mother  here.  Caan't  'e,  caan't  'e,  faither? 
My  road's  that  hard." 

Then  he  answered,  his  words  bursting  out  of 
his  lips  sharply,  painfully  at  first,  rolling  as  usual 
in  his  mighty  chest  voice  afterward.  The  man 
twisted  Scripture  to  his  narrow  purposes  accord- 
ing to  Luke  Gospel  usage. 

"  'Forgive'?  "Who  can  forgive  but  the  Lard, 
an*  what  is  man  that  he  should  forgive  them  as 
the  A'mighty's  damned?  'Tis  the  sinners'  bleat 
an*  whine  for  forgiveness  what's  crackin'  the 
ear  o'  God  whensoever  'tis  bent  'pon  airth. 
Ain't  your  religion  taught  you  that  —  you, 
Thomas  Chirgwin?  If  not,  'tis  a  brawken 
reed,  man.  Get  you  gone,  you  fagot,  you 
an'  this  here  white-haired  sawl,  as  is  foolin' 
you  an'  holdin'  converse  wi'  the  outcast  o' 


LYING   PROPHETS  365 

heaven.  I  ban't  no  faither  o'  yourn,  thank 
God,  as  shawed  me  I  weern't — never,  never. 
Gaw!  Gaw  both  of  'e.  My  God!  the  sight 
of  'e  do  sicken  me  as  I  stand  in  the  same  air. 
You — an  auld  man — touchin'  her  an'  her  devil- 
sent,  filthy  moneys.  'Twas  a  evil  day,  Thomas 
Chirgwin,  when  I  fust  seed  them  o'  your  blood 
— an  ill  hour,  an'  you  drives  it  red-hot  into  my 
brain  with  your  actions.  Bad,  bad  you  be — bad 
as  that  lyin',  false,  lost  sinner  theer — a-draggin' 
out  your  cant  o'  forgiveness  an'  foolin'  a  damned 
sawl  wi'  falsehoods.  You  knaws  wheer  she'm 
gwaine;  an'  your  squeakin',  time-servin'  passon 
knaws;  an'  you  both  tells  her  differ'nt!" 

"Out  on  'e,  you  stone-hearted  wretch  o!  a 
man!"  began  Uncle  Chirgwin  in  a  small  voice, 
shaking  with  anger;  but  the  fisherman  had  not 
said  his  last  word,  and  roared  the  other  down. 
Gray  Michael's  self-control  was  less  than  usual ; 
his  face  had  grown  very  red  and  surcharged 
veins  showed  black  on  the  unwrinkled  sides  of 
his  forehead. 

"No  more,  not  a  word.  Get  you  gone  an' 
never  agin  set  foot  'pon  this  here  draxel.* 
Never — never  none  o'  Chirgwin  breed.  Gaw! 
or  auld  as  you  be,  I'll  force  'e!  God's  on  the 
side  o'  right!" 

Hereupon  Joan,  not  judging  correctly  of  the 
black  storm  signs  on  her  father's  face  or  the 
force  of  the  voice,  now  grating  into  a  shriek  as 
passion  tumbled  to  flood,  prayed  yet  again  for 

*  Draxel— Threshold. 


366  LYING    PROPHETS 

that  pardon  which  her  parent  was  powerless  to 
grant.  The  boon  denied  grew  precious  in  her 
eyes.  She  wept  and  importuned,  falling  on 
her  knees  to  him. 

"God  can  do  it,  God  can  do  it,  faither.  Please 
—please,  for  the  sake  o'  the  God  as  leads  you, 
forgive.  Oh,  God  in  heaven,  make  en  forgive 
me — 'tis  all  I  wants." 

But  a  religious  delirium  gripped  Tregenza  and 
poisoned  the  blood  in  him.  His  breast  rose,  his 
fists  clinched,  his  mouth  was  dragged  sidewise 
and  his  underlip  shook.  A  damned  soul,  look- 
ing up  with  wild  eyes  into  his,  was  all  he  saw — 
the  very  offscouring  and  filth  of  human  nature 
— hell  tinder,  to  touch  which  in  kindness  was  to 
risk  his  own  salvation. 

"Gaw,  gaw!  Else  the  Lard'll  make  me  His 
weapon.  He's  whisperin' — He's  whisperin'!" 

There  was  something  horribly  akin  to  genuine 
madness  in  the  frenzy  of  this  utterance.  Mrs. 
Tregenza  screamed ;  Joan  struggled  to  her  feet 
in  some  terror  and  her  head  swam.  She  turned 
to  get  her  hat  from  the  dresser-ledge,  and,  as 
she  did  so,  the  little  blue  plate,  tied  up  in  paper 
beside  it,  fell  and  broke,  like  the  last  link  of  a 
snapping  chain.  Gray  Michael  was  making  a 
snorting  in  his  nostrils  and  his  head  seemed  to 
grow  lower  on  his  shoulders.  Then  Mr.  Chirg- 
win  found  his  opportunity  and  spoke. 

"I've  heard  you,  an'  it  ban't  human  nachur  to 
knuckle  down  dumb,  so  I  be  gwaine  to  speak, 
an'  you  can  mind  or  not  as  you  please." 

He  flung  his  old  hat  upon  the  ground  and 


LYING   PROPHETS  367 

walked  without  fear  close  beside  the  fisherman 
who  towered  above  him. 

"God  be  with  'e,  I  sez,  for  you  need  En  fine 
an'  bad  for  sartain — worse'n  that  poor  'mazed 
lamb  shakin'  theer.  You  talk  o'  the  ways  o' 
God  to  men  an'  knaw  no  more  'bout  'em  than 
the  feesh  what  you  draw  from  the  sea!  You'm 
choustin'  yourself  cruel  wi'  your  self -righteous- 
ness— take  it  from  me.  You'm  saved,  be  you? 
You  be  gwaine  to  heaven,  are  'e?  Who  tawld 
'e  so,  Michael  Tregenza?  Did  God  A'mighty 
send  a  flyin'  angel  to  tell  'e  a  purpose?  Look 
in  your  heart,  man,  an'  see  how  much  o'  Christ 
be  in  it.  Christ,  I  tell  'e,  Christ — Christ — Jesus 
Christ.  It's  Him  as'll  smuggle  us  all  into 
heaven,  not  your  psalm-smitin',  knock* me- 
down,  ten-commandment,  cussin'  God.  I'm 
grawin'  very  auld  an'  I  knaw  what  I  knaw. 
Your  God's  a  devil,  fisherman — a  graspin', 
cruel  devil ;  an'  them  the  devil  saves  is  damned. 
'Tis  Christ  as  you've  turned  your  stiff  back  'pon 
— Christ  as'll  let  this  poor  lass  into  heaven  afore 
ever  you  gets  theer !  You  ban't  in  sight  o'  the 
gates  o'  pearl,  not  you,  for  all  your  cold  prayers. 
You'm  young  in  well-doin' ;  an'  'tis  a  'ard  road 
you'll  fetch  home  by,  I'll  swear;  an'  'tis  more'n 
granite  the  Lard'll  use  to  make  your  heart 
bleed.  He'll  break  you,  Tregenza  —  you,  so 
bold,  as  looks  dry-eyed  'pon  the  sun  an'  reckons 
your  throne'll  wan  day  be  as  bright.  He'll 
break  you,  an'  bring  you  to  your  knees,  an'  that 
'fore  your  gray  hairs  be  turned,  as  mine,  to 
white.  Oh,  Christ  Jesus,  look  you  at  this  blind 


368  LYING    PROPHETS 

sawl  an'  give  en  somethin'  better  to  lay  hold 
'pon  than  his  poor  bally-muck  o'  religion  what's 
nort  but  a  gert  livin'  lie!" 

Thomas  Chirgwin  seemed  mightily  transfig- 
ured as  he  spoke.  The  words  came  without 
an  effort,  but  he  uttered  them  with  pauses 
and  in  a  loud  voice  not  lacking  solemnity. 
His  head  shook,  yet  he  stood  firm  and  motion- 
less upon  his  feet;  and  he  made  his  points 
with  a  gesture,  often  repeated,  of  his  open 
right  hand. 

As  for  Tregenza,  the  man  listened  through 
all,  though  he  heard  but  little.  His  head  was 
full  of  blood ;  there  was  a  weight  on  his  tongue 
striking  it  silent  and  forcing  his  mouth  open  at 
the  same  moment.  The  world  looked  red  as  he 
saw  it;  his  limbs  were  not  bearing  him  stiffly. 
Thomasin  had  her  eye  upon  him,  for  she  was 
quite  prepared  to  throw  over  her  previous  state- 
ments and  support  her  husband  against  an  at- 
tack so  astounding  and  unexpected.  And  the 
more  so  that  he  had  not  himself  hurled  an  im- 
mediate and  crushing  answer. 

Meantime  the  old  farmer's  sudden  fires  died 
within  him ;  he  shrank  to  his  true  self,  and  the 
voice  in  which  he  now  spoke  seemed  that  of 
another  man. 

"Give  heed  to  what  I've  said  to  V.  Michael, 
an'  be  humble  afore  the  Lard  same  as  your 
darter  be.  Go  in  fear,  as  you  be  forever  biddin' 
all  flaish  to  go.  Never  say  no  sawl's  lost  while 
you  give  all  power  to  the  Maker  <>'  Hawta.  Go 
in  fear,  I  sez,  else  theer'll  come  a  whirlwind  o' 


LYING   PROPHETS  369 

God-sent  sorrer  to  strike  wheer  your  heart's  de- 
sire be  rooted.     JTis  allus  so — allus — " 

Tom  entered  upon  these  words,  and  Uncle 
Chirgwin's  eyes  dropping  upon  him  as  he  spoke, 
his  utterance  sounded  like  a  prophecy.  So  the 
boy's  mother  read  it,  and  with  a  half  sob,  half 
shriek,  she  turned  in  all  the  frenzy  of  sudden 
maternal  wrath.  Her  sharp  tongue  dropped 
mere  vituperation,  but  did  so  with  boundless 
vigor,  and  the  woman's  torrent  of  unbridled 
curses  and  threats  swept  that  scene  of  storm 
to  its  close.  Joan  went  first  from  the  door, 
while  Mr.  Chirgwin,  picking  up  his  hat  and 
buttoning  his  coat,  retreated  after  her  before 
the  volume  of  Thomasin's  virago  attack.  Tom 
stood  open-mouthed  and  silent,  dumfounded  at 
the  tremendous  spectacle  of  his  mother's  rage 
and  his  father's  stricken  silence.  Then,  as  Mrs. 
Tregenza  slammed  the  door  and  wept,  her  hus- 
band sunk  slowly  down  with  something  strangely 
like  terror  in  his  eyes.  The  man  in  truth  had 
just  passed  through  a  physical  crisis  of  alarm- 
ing nature.  He  sat  in  his  easy-chair  now,  re- 
moved his  hat,  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
his  forehead  with  hands  that  shook.  It  was  not 
what  he  had  heard  or  beheld  that  woke  alarm 
in  a  spirit  which  had  never  known  it  till  then, 
but  what  he  had  felt :  a  horror  which  crowded 
down  upon  every  sense,  gripped  his  volition  with 
unseen  hands,  blinded  him,  stopped  his  ears, 
held  his  limbs,  stirred  his  brains  into  a  whirl- 
ing waste.  He  knew  now  that  in  his  moment 
of  passion  he  had  stood  upon  the  very  brink  of 


370  LYING   PROPHETS 

some  terrific,  shattering  evil,  possibly  of  death 
itself.  Body  or  brain  or  both  had  passed  through 
a  great,  unknown  danger;  and  now,  dazed  and 
for  the  time  much  aged,  he  looked  about  him 
with  slow  eyes — mastered  the  situation,  and 
realized  the  incident  was  ended. 

"The  Lard— 'the  Lard  is  King,'"  he  said, 
and  stopped  a  moment.  Then  he  slowly  rose  to 
his  feet  and  with  the  old  voice,  though  it  shook 
and  slurred  somewhat  upon  his  tongue,  spoke 
that  text  which  served  him  in  all  occasions  of 
unusual  stress  and  significance. 

"  'The  Lard  is  King,  be  the  people  never  so 
impatient;  He  sitteth  between  the  cherubims, 
be  the  airth  never  so  unquiet' !" 

Then  he  sat  again  and  long  remained  motion- 
less with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

Meantime  the  old  horse  dragged  Uncle  Chirg- 
win  and  his  niece  away  along  the  level  road  to 
Mousehole.  Joan  was  wrapped  in  a  tarpaulin 
and  they  proceeded  silently  a  while  under  cold 
rains,  which  swept  up  from  a  leaden  south  over 
the  sea.  The  wind  blew  strong,  tore  green 
leaves  from  the  hedges,  and  chimed  with  the 
thoughts  of  the  man  and  his  niece. 

"How  did  you  come  to  speak  so  big  an'  braave, 
Uncle  Thomas?  I  couldn'  say  no  more  to  en,  for 
the  lights  rose  up  in  my  throat  an'  choked  me ; 
but  you  swelled  out  somethin'  grand  to  see,  an' 
spawk  as  no  man  ever  yet  spawk  to  faither 
afore." 

"  'Twas  put  in  me  to  say;  I  doan't  knaw  how 
ever  I  done  it,  but  my  tongue  weenrt  my  awn 


LYING   PROPHETS  37l 

for  the  time.  Pull  that  thing  tighter  about  'e. 
This  rain  would  go  through  a  barn  door." 

At  the  steep  hill  rising  from  Mousehole  to 
Paul,  Uncle  Chirgwin  got  out  and  walked, 
while  the  horse,  with  his  shoulders  to  the  col- 
lar, plodded  forward.  Then,  down  the  road 
came  the  laboring  man,  Billy  Jago,  mentioned 
aforetime  as  one  who  had  worked  for  Mr.  Chirg- 
win in  the  past.  He  touched  his  hat  to  his  old 
master  and  greeted  him  with  respect  and  regard. 
For  a  moment  the  farmer  also  stopped.  No  false 
sentiment  tied  Billy's  tongue  and  he  spoke  of 
matters  personal  to  those  before  him,  having 
first  mournfully  described  his  own  state  of 
health. 

"But  theer,  us  gaws  down  to  the  tomb  to 
make  way  for  the  new  born.  I  do  say,  an* 
swear  tu,  that  the  butivulest  things  in  all  wild 
nachur  be  a  ship  in  full  sail  an'  a  wummon  in 
the  fam'ly  way.  Ban't  nothin'  to  beat  'em. 
An'  I'll  say  it  here,  'pon  this  spot,  though  the 
rain's  bitin'  into  my  bones  like  teeth.  So 
long  to  'e,  maaster,  an'  good  cheeldin'  to  'e, 
miss!" 

The  man  rolled  with  loutish  gait  down  the 
hill;  the  darkness  gathered;  the  wind  whistled 
through  high  hedges  on  the  left;  farmer  Chirg- 
win made  sounds  of  encouragement  to  his  horse, 
which  moved  onward;  and  Joan  thought  with 
curious  interest  of  those  things  that  Billy  Jago 
had  said. 

"  'Tis  straange  us  met  that  poor,  croony  antic 
at  sich  a  moment,"  mused  Uncle  Thomas;  "the 


372  LYING   PROPHETS 

words  of  en  jag  sore  'pon  a  body's  mind,  comin* 
arter  what's  in  our  thots  like." 

"Maybe  'tis  paart  o'  the  queerness  o'  things 
as  us  should  fall  'pon  en  now,"  answered  Joan. 

Then,  through  a  stormy  gloaming,  they  re- 
turned in  sadness  to  the  high  lands  of  Drift. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

A  GLEN-ADER 

"A  NEW  broom  sweeps  clean,  but  'tis  the 
auld  wan  as  is  good  for  corners,"  said  Uncle 
Chirgwin,  when  with  his  nieces  he  sat  beside 
the  kitchen  fire  that  night  and  discussed  the 
events  of  the  day. 

"By  which  I  means,"  he  added,  "that  these 
new-fangled  ways  of  approaching  the  A 'mighty 
may  go  to  branch  and  trunk  an'  make  a  clean 
sweep  o'  evil,  but  they  leaves  the  root  o'  pride 
stickin'  in  a  man's  sawl.  'Tis  the  auld  broom 
as  Christ  brought  in  the  world  as  routs  into  the 
dark  corners  like  nothin'  else." 

"I  be  glad  you  spawk  to  en,"  said  Mary. 
"Seed  sawed  do  bring  forth  fruit  in  a  'mazin' 
way." 

"I  reckoned  he'd  a  smote  me,  but  he  dedn'. 
He  just  turned  rosy  red  an'  stood  glazin'  at  me 
as  if  I  was  a  ghost." 


LYING   PROPHETS  373 

"I  never  see  en  look  like  that  afore,"  declared 
Joan;  "he  'peared  to  be  af eared.  But  the 
door's  shut  'gainst  me  now.  I  caan't  do  no 
more'n  I  have  done.  He'll  never  forgive." 

"As  to  that,  Joan,  I  won't  say.  You  bide 
quiet  till  the  seed  sprouts.  I  lay  now  as  you'll 
hear  tell  about  your  faither  an'  maybe  get  a 
message  from  en  'fore  the  year's  a  month 
older." 

With  which  hopeful  prediction  Uncle  Chirg- 
win  ended  the  discussion. 

That  night  the  circular  storm,  which  had  died 
away  at  dark,  turned  upon  itself  and  the  wind 
moaned  at  window  latches  and  down  chimneys, 
prophesying  autumn.  Dawn  broke  on  a 
drenched,  gray  world,  but  *he  storm  had  clean 
passed,  and  at  noon  the  gray  brightened  to 
silver  and  burned  to  gold  when  the  sun  came 
out.  The  wind  wore  to  the  west,  and  on  to 
northwest;  the  weather  settled  down  and  days 
of  a  rare  late  summer  pursued  their  even 
way. 

A  fortnight  passed,  and  the  farmer's  belief 
that  Gray  Michael  would  communicate  with  his 
daughter  began  to  waver. 

"Pharaoh's  a  soft-'earted  twoad  to  this  wan," 
he  declared  gloomily.  "It  do  beat  me  to  pick- 
sher  sich  a  man.  I've  piped  to  en  hot  an'  strong, 
as  Joan  knaws,  but  he  ban't  gwaine  to  dance 
'tall  seemin'ly.  Poor  sawl !  When  the  hand  o' 
the  Lard  do  fall,  God  send  'twon't  crush  en  all 
in  all.  'Saved'—  him— dear,  dear!" 

"The  likes  of  Tregenza  be  saved  'pon  St. 


374  LYINO    PROPHETS 

Tibbs  Eve,*  I  reckon,  an'  no  sooner,"  answered 
Mary  scornfully.  Then  she  modified  her  fiery 
statement  according  to  her  custom,  for  the 
woman's  zeal  always  had  first  call  upon  her 
tongue,  and  her  judgment  usually  took  off  the 
edge  of  every  harsh  statement  immediately  upon 
its  utterance. 

"Leastways  'tis  hard  to  see  how  sich  bowl- 
dashious  standin'  up  in  the  eye  o'  God  should 
prosper.  But  us  can  be  saved  even  from  our 
awnselves,  I  s'pose.  So  Tregenza  have  got  his 
chance  along  o'  the  best." 

Joan  never  resented  the  outspoken  criticisms 
on  her  parent.  She  listened,  but  rarely  joined 
the  discussion.  The  whole  matter  speedily  sank 
to  a  position  of  insignificance.  Her  own  mind 
was  clear,  and  the  deadlock  only  cut  off  one 
more  outer  interest  and  reduced  Life's  existing 
influences  to  a  smaller  field.  She  drew  more 
and  more  into  herself,  slipped  more  and  more 
from  out  the  routine  life  of  Drift.  She  became 
self -centered,  and  when  her  body  was  not  absent, 
as  happened  upon  most  fine  days,  her  mind  ab- 
stracted itself  to  extreme  limits.  She  grew  shy 
of  fellow-creatures,  found  no  day  happy  of 
which  a  part  had  not  been  spent  beside  a  cross, 
showed  a  gradual  indifference  to  the  services  of 
the  church  which  not  long  since  had  attracted 
her  so  strongly  and  braced  the  foundations  of 
her  soul.  There  came  at  last  a  black  Sunday 
when  Joan  refused  to  accompany  Mary  and  the 

•  St.  Tibb»  Eve— Equivalent  to  the  "Greek  Calends." 


LYING   PROPHETS  375 

farmer  to  morning  worship  at  Sancreed.  She 
made  no  excuse,  but  designed  a  pilgrimage  of 
more  than  usual  length,  and,  having  driven  as 
far  as  the  church  with  her  uncle  and  cousin,  left 
them  there  and  walked  on  her  way.  Even  the 
fascinations  of  a  harvest  festival  failed  to  charm 
her ;  and  the  spectacle  of  fat  roots,  mighty  mar- 
rows, yellow  corn  and  red  apples  on  the  window- 
ledges,  of  grapes  and  tomatoes,  flowers  and 
loaves  upon  the  altar,  pulpit  and  font,  did  not 
appeal  overmuch  to  Joan — a  fact  perhaps  sur- 
prising. 

"With  a  plump  pasty  of  meat  and  flour  in  her 
pocket  and  one  of  Uncle  Chirgwin's  walking- 
sticks  to  help  her  footsteps,  Joan  went  on  her 
way,  passed  the  Wesleyan  Chapel  of  Sancreed, 
and  then  maintained  a  reasonably  direct  line  to 
her  destination  by  short  cuts  and  field  paths. 
She  intended  to  visit  Men  Scryfa,  that  famous 
"long  stone"  which  stands  away  in  a  moor  croft 
beyond  Lanyon.  She  knew  that  it  was  no  right 
cross,  but  she  remembered  it  well,  having  visited 
the  monument  frequently  in  the  past.  It  was 
holy  with  infinite  age,  and  the  writing  upon  it 
fascinated  her  as  a  mystery  fascinates  most 
of  us. 

The  words,  " Rialobrani  Cunovdli  Fili," 
which  probably  mark  the  fact  that  Rialobran, 
son  of  Cunoval,  some  Brito-Celtic  chieftain  of 
eld,  lies  buried  not  far  distant,  meant  nothing  to 
Joan,  but  the  old  gray-headed  stone,  perhaps 
the  loneliest  in  all  Cornwall,  was  pleasant  tc 
her  thoughts,  and  she  trudged  forward  gladly. 


376  LYING    PROPHETS 

with  her  eyes  open  for  all  the  beauties  of  a  smil- 
ing world. 

Summer  clouds,  sunny-hearted  and  towering 
against  the  blue,  dropped  immense  shadows  on 
the  glimmering  gold  of  much  stubble  and  on  the 
wastes  of  the  moor  rising  above  them.  In  the 
cornfields,  visible  now  that  the  crops  were  cut 
and  gathered  into  mows,  stood  little  gray-green 
islands — a  mark  distinctive  of  Cornish  hus- 
bandry. Here  grew  cow-cabbages  in  rank  lux- 
uriance, on  mounds  of  manure  which  would  be 
presently  scattered  over  the  exhausted  land. 
The  Little  oases  in  the  deserts  of  the  fields  were 
too  familiar  to  arrest  Joan's  eye.  She  merely 
glanced  at  the  garnered  wheat  and  thought 
what  a  brief  time  the  arrish  geese,  stuffing 
themselves  in  the  stubble,  had  yet  to  live.  A 
solemn,  splendid  peace  held  the  country-side, 
and  hardly  a  soul  was  abroad  where  the  road  led 
upward  to  wild  moor  and  waste.  Sometimes  a 
group  of  calves  crowding  under  the  shady  side  of 
hedges  regarded  Joan  with  youthful  interest; 
sometimes,  in  a  distant  coomb-bottom,  where 
blackberries  grew,  little  sunbonnets  bobbed 
above  the  fern  and  a  child's  shrill  voice  came 
clear  to  her  upon  the  wind.  But  the  loneli- 
ness grew,  and,  anon,  turning  from  her  way  a 
while,  the  traveler  sat  on  the  gray  crown  of 
Trengwainton  Cam  to  rest  and  look  at  the 
wide  world. 

From  the  little  tor,  over  undulations  of  broad 
light  and  blue  shadow,  Joan  could  see  afar  to 
Buryan's  lofty  tower,  to  Paul  above  the  sea,  to 


LYING   PROPHETS  377 

Sancreed's  sycamores  and  to  Drift  beyond  them. 
Wild  sweeps  of  fell  and  field  faded  on  the  sight 
to  those  dim  and  remote  hues  of  distance  only 
visible  upon  days  of  exceeding  aerial  brilliancy. 
Immediately  beneath  the  eminence  subtended 
ragged  expanses  of  rainbow-colored  heath  and 
fern  and  furze  spotted  with  small  fir  trees  which 
showed  blue  against  the  tones  of  the  moor.  The 
heather's  pink  clearly  contrasted  with  the  paler 
shades  of  the  ling,  and  an  additional  silvery 
twinkle  of  light  inhabited  the  latter  plant,  its 
cause  last  year's  dead  white  branches  and  twigs 
still  scattered  through  the  living  foliage  and 
flower.  Out  of  a  myriad  bells  that  wild  world 
spoke,  and  the  murmur  of  the  heath  came  as  the 
murmur  of  a  wise  voice  to  the  ear  on  which  it 
fell.  There  was  a  soul  in  the  day ;  it  lived,  and 
Joan  looked  into  the  eyes  of  a  glorious,  conscious 
entity,  herself  a  little  part  of  the  space-filling 
whole. 

Presently,  refreshed  by  brief  rest,  the  pilgrim 
journeyed  on  over  a  road  which  climbs  the  moor 
above  deep  fox-covers  of  rhododendron,  already 
mentioned  as  visible  from  Madron  chapel.  The 
way  dipped  presently,  crossed  a  rivulet  and 
mounted  again  past  the  famous  cromlech  of  Lan- 
yon.  But  Joan  passed  the  quoit  unheeding,  and 
kept  upon  flint  roads  through  Lanyon  farm, 
where  its  irregular  buildings  stretch  across  the 
hill-crest.  She  saw  the  stacks  roped  strangely 
in  nets  with  heavy  stones  to  secure  them  against 
winter  gales ;  she  observed  the  various  familiar 
objects  of  Drift  repeated  on  a  greater  scale; 


378  LYING    PROPHETS 

then,  going  down  hill  yet  again,  Joan  struck  up 
the  course  of  another  stream  and  passed  steadily 
over  broad,  granite-dotted  tangles  of  whin, 
heather  and  rank  grasses  to  her  destination. 
Here  the  heath  was  blasted  and  scarred  with 
summer  fires.  Great  patches  of  the  waste  had 
been  eaten  naked  by  past  flames,  and  Men-an-tol 
—the  "crick-stone" — past  which  she  progressed, 
stood  with  its  lessor  granite  pillars  in  a  dark  bed 
of  scorched  earth  and  blackened  furze-stems 
stripped  bare  by  the  fire.  She  stood  in  a  wide, 
desolate  cup  of  the-  Cornish  moor.  To  the  south 
Ding-Dong  Mine  reared  its  shattered  chimney- 
stack,  toward  the  northwest  Carn  Galvas — that 
rock-piled  fastness  of  dead  giants — reared  a 
gray  head  against  the  blue.  A  curlew  piped; 
a  lizard  rustled  into  a  tussock  of  grass  where 
pink  bog -heather  and  seeding  cotton  grasses 
splashed  the  sodden  ground;  a  dragon-fly  from 
the  marsh  stayed  a  moment  upon  Men-an-tol, 
and  the  jewel  of  his  eyes  was  a  little  world  hold- 
ing all  the  colors  of  the  larger. 

Joan,  keeping  her  way  to  where  Cam  Galvas 
rose  over  the  next  ridge,  walked  another  few 
hundred  yards,  crossed  a  disused  road,  climbed 
a  stony  bank,  and  then  stood  in  the  little  croft 
sacred  to  Men  Scryfa.  At  the  center,  above  a 
land  almost  barren  save  for  stunted  heath  and 
wind-beaten  fern  it  rose — a  tall  stone  of  rough 
and  irregular  shape.  The  bare  black  earth,  in 
which  shone  quartz  crystals,  stretched  at  hand 
in  squares.  From  these  raw  spaces,  peat  had 
been  cut,  to  be  subsequently  burned  for  manure; 


LYING   PROPHETS  379 

and  it  stood  hard  by  stacked  in  a  row  of  beat- 
burrows  or  little  piles  of  overlapping  pieces,  the 
cut  side  out.  Near  the  famous  old  stone  itself, 
surmounting  a  barrow-like  tumulus,  grew 
stunted  bracken;  and  here  Joan  presently  sat 
down  full  of  happiness  in  that  her  pilgrimage 
had  been  achieved.  The  granite  pillar  of  Men 
Scryfa  was  crested  with  that  fine  yellow-gray 
lichen  which  finds  life  on  exposed  stones;  upon 
the  windward  side  clung  a  few  atoms  of  golden 
growth ;  and  its  rude  carved  inscription  straggled 
down  the  northern  face.  The  monument  rose 
sheer  above  black  corpses  of  crooked  furze,  for 
fire  had  swept  this  region  also,  adding  not  a  lit- 
tle to  the  prevailing  sobriety  of  it,  and  only  the 
elemental  splendor  of  weather  and  the  canopy  of 
blue  and  gold  beneath  which  spread  this  desola- 
tion rendered  it  less  than  mournful.  Even  un- 
der these  circumstances  imagination,  as  though 
rebelling  against  the  conditions  of  sunshine  and 
summer  then  maintaining,  leaped  to  picture  Men 
Scryfa  under  the  black  screaming  of  winter 
storm  or  rising  darkly  upon  deep  snows;  cast- 
ing a  transitory  shadow  over  a  waste  ghastly 
blue  under  flashes  of  lightning,  or  throbbing  to 
its  deep  roots  when  thunder  roared  over  the 
moor  and  the  levin  brand  hissed  unseen  into 
quag  and  fen. 

The  double  crown  of  Carn  Galvas  fronted 
Joan  as  she  presently  sat  with  her  back  rest- 
ing against  the  stone ;  and  a  medley  of  the  old 
thoughts  rose  not  unwelcome  in  her  mind.  Giant 
mythology  seemed  a  true  thing  in  sight  of  these 


380  LYING   PROPHETS 

vast  regular  piles  of  granite ;  and  the  thought  of 
the  kind  simple  monsters  who  had  raised  that 
cam  led  to  musings  on  the  "little  people."  Her 
mind  brooded  over  the  fairies  and  their  strange 
ways  with  young  human  mothers.  She  remem- 
bered the  stories  of  changelings,  and  vowed  to 
herself  that  her  own  babe  should  never  be  out  of 
sight.  These  reflections  found  no  adverse  criti- 
cism in  faith.  The  Bible  was  full  of  giants; 
and  if  no  fairies  were  mentioned  therein,  she 
had  read  nothing  aimed  against  them.  Pres- 
ently she  prayed  for  the  coming  child.  Her 
soul  went  with  the  words;  and  they  were  ad- 
dressed with  vagueness  as  became  her  vague 
thoughts,  half  to  Men  Scryfa,  half  to  God,  all 
in  the  name  of  Christ. 

Going  home  again,  after  noon,  Joan  found 
a  glen-ader,*  which  circumstance  is  here  men- 
tioned to  illustrate  the  conflicting  nature  of  those 
many  forces  still  active  in  her  mind.  That  they 
should  have  coexisted  and  not  destroyed  each 
other  is  the  point  of  most  peculiarity.  But  it 
seemed  for  a  moment  as  though  the  girl  had 
intellectually  passed  at  least  that  form  of  super- 
stition embraced  by  coveted  possession  of  a  glen- 
ader  ;  for,  upon  finding  the  thing  lying  extended 
like  a  snake's  ghost,  she  hesitated  before  picking 
it  up.  The  old  tradition,  however,  sucked  in 
from  a  credulous  parent  with  much  similar  folly 

*  Glen-ader — The  cast  skin  of  an  adder.  Once  ac- 
counted a  powerful  amulet,  and  still  sometimes  secretly 
preserved  by  the  ignorant,  as  sailors  treasure  a  caul. 


LYING   PROPHETS  381 

at  a  time  when  the  mind  accepts  impressions 
most  readily,  was  too  strong  for  Joan.  Qualms 
she  had,  and  some  whisper  at  the  bottom  of  her 
mind  was  heard  with  a  clearness  sufficient  to 
make  her  uncomfortable,  but  reason  held  a  feeble 
citadel  at  best  in  Joan's  mind.  The  whisper 
died,  memory  spoke  of  the  notable  value  which 
wise  men  through  long  past  years  had  placed 
upon  this  charm,  and  in  the  face  of  the  future  it 
seemed  wicked  to  reject  a  thing  of  such  proven 
efficacy.  So  she  picked  up  the  adder's  slough, 
designing  to  sew  it  upon  a  piece  of  flannel  and 
henceforth  wear  it  against  her  skin  until  her 
baby  should  be  born.  But  she  determined  to 
tell  neither  Mary  nor  her  uncle,  though  she  did 
not  stop  to  ask  why  secrecy  thus  commended 
itself  to  her. 

That  evening  Mary  came  primed  from  church- 
going  with  grave  admonition.  Mr.  Chirgwin 
was  tearful,  and  hinted  at  his  own  sorrow  aris- 
ing from  Joan's  backsliding,  but  Mary  did  not 
mince  language  and  spoke  what  she  thought. 

"  You'm  wrong,  an'  you  knaw  you'm  wrong," 
she  said.  "The  crosses  be  very  well,  an'  coori- 
ous,  butivul  things  to  see  'pon  the  land  tu,  but 
they'm  poor  food  to  a  body's  sawl.  They  caan't 
shaw  wheer  you'm  out;  they  caan't  lead  'e 
right." 

"Iss  they  can,  then,  an'  they  do,"  declared 
Joan.  "The  more  I  bide  along  wi'  'em  the 
better  I  feel  an'  the  nearer  to  God  A'mighty,  so 
theer!  They'm  allus  the  same,  an'  they  puts 
thots  in  my  head  that's  good  to  think;  an'  I 


382  LYING    PROPHETS 

must  go  my   ways,    Polly,   same    as    you    go 
yours." 

When  night  came  Joan  slept  within  the  mys- 
tic circumference  of  the  glen-ader ;  and  that  she 
derived  a  growing  measure  of  mental  satisfac- 
tion from  its  embrace  is  unquestionable. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 
"COME  TO  ME!" 

A  SPACE  of  time  six  weeks  in  duration  may  be 
hastily  dismissed  as  producing  no  alteration  in 
Joan's  method  of  thought  and  life.  It  swept 
her  swiftly  through  shortening  days  and  the 
last  of  the  summer  weather  to  the  climax  of 
her  fortunes.  As  the  season  waned  she  kept 
nearer  home,  going  not  much  further  than  Tre- 
in.i thick  Cross  on  the  St.  Just  road  or  to  that 
relic  already  mentioned  as  lying  outside  San- 
creed  churchyard.  These,  in  time,  she  asso- 
ciated as  much  with  her  child  as  with  herself. 
The  baby  had  now  taken  its  natural  place  in  her 
mind,  and  she  prayed  every  day  that  it  might 
presently  forgive  her  for  bringing  it  into  the 
world  at  all.  Misty-eyed,  not  unhappy,  with 
her  beauty  still  a  startling  fact,  Joan  mused 
away  long  hours  at  the  feet  of  her  granite 
friends  through  the  waning  splendors  of  many 


LYING   PROPHETS  383 

an  autumn  noon.  Then,  within  the  brief  space 
of  two  weeks,  a  period  of  weather  almost  unex- 
ampled in  the  memory  of  the  oldest  agricultur- 
ists drew  to  its  close. 

That  mighty  rains  must  surely  come  all  knew, 
but  none  foretold  their  tremendous  volume  or 
foresaw  the  havoc,  ruin  and  destruction  to  fol- 
low upon  their  outpouring.  Meantime,  with 
late  September,  the  leaves  began  to  hustle 
early  to  earth  under  great  winds.  Rain  fell 
at  times,  but  not  heavily  at  first,  and  a  thirsty 
world  drank  open-mouthed  through  deep  sun- 
cracks  in  field  and  moor  and  dried-up  marsh. 
But  bedraggled  autumn's  robes  were  soon 
washed  colorless;  the  heath  turned  pallid  be- 
fore it  faded  to  sere  brown;  rotten  banks  of 
decaying  leaves  rose  high  under  the  hedges. 
There  was  no  dry,  crisp  whirl  of  gold  on  the 
wind,  but  a  sodden  condition  gradually  over- 
spread the  land.  The  earth  grew  drunken  with 
the  later  rains  and  could  hold  no  more.  October 
saw  the  last  of  the  purple  and  crimson,  the  tawny 
browns  and  royal  yellows.  Only  beeches,  their 
wet  leaves  by  many  shades  a  darker  auburn  than 
is  customary,  still  retained  lower  foliage.  The 
trees  put  on  their  winter  shapes  unduly  early. 
The  world  was  dark  and  sweated  fungus.  Un- 
couth children  of  the  earth,  whose  hour  is  that 
which  sees  the  leaf  fall,  sprang  into  short-live(5 
being.  Black  goblins  and  gray,  white  goblins 
and  brown,  spread  weird  life  abroad.  With 
fleshy  gills,  squat  and  lean,  fat  and  thin,  burst- 
ing through  the  grass  in  companies  and  circles, 


384  LYING    PROPHETS 

lurking  livid,  gigantic  and  alone  on  the  trunks 
of  forest  trees,  gemming  the  rotten  bough  with 
crimson,  twinkling  like  topaz  on  the  crooked 
stems  of  the  furze,  battening  upon  death,  rising 
into  transitory  vigor  from  the  rack  and  rot  of 
a  festering  earth,  they  flourished.  Heavy  mists 
now  stretched  their  draperies  over  the  high  lands ; 
and  exhalations  from  the  corpse  of  the  summer 
hung  bluish  under  the  rain  in  the  valleys.  One 
night  a  full  moon  shone  clearly,  and  through 
the  ambient  light  ominous  sheets  and  splashes 
of  silver  glimmered  in  the  low  fields.  Here  they 
had  slowly  and  silently  spread  into  existence, 
their  birth  hidden  under  the  mists,  their  signifi- 
cance marked  by  none  but  anxious  farmers.  All 
men  hoped  that  the  full  moon  would  bring  cessa- 
tion of  this  rainfall ;  but  another  gray  dawn  faced 
them  on  the  morrow  and  a  thousand  busy  rills 
murmured  and  babbled  down  the  lanes  round 
Drift.  Here  and  there  unsuspected  springs  burst 
their  hidden  chambers  and  swept  by  steep  courses 
over  the  green  grass  to  join  these  main  waters 
which  now  raced  through  the  valley.  The  light 
of  day  was  heavy  and  pressed  upon  the  sight. 
It  acted  like  a  telescope  in  the  intervals  of  no 
rain  and  brought  distant  objects  into  strange 
distinctness.  The  weather  was  much  too  warm 
even  for  Western  Cornwall.  A  few  leaves  still 
hung  on  the  crown  of  the  apple  trees,  and  such 
scanty  peach  and  nectarine  foliage  as  yet  re- 
mained was  green.  The  red  currants  flaunted 
a  gold  leaf  or  two  and  the  remaining  loaves  of 
tbi:  black  currant  were  purple  after  his  fashion. 


LYING   PROPHETS  385 

Joan  marveled  to  see  sundry  of  her  favorites 
thrusting  forth  tokens  of  spring  almost  before 
autumn  was  ended.  Lilac  buds  swelled  to  burst- 
ing; a  peony  pushed  many  pink  points  upward 
through  the  brown  ruins  of  the  past;  bulbs  were 
growing  rapidly;  Nature  had  forgotten  winter 
for  once,  thought  Joan.  Thus  the  sodden,  sun- 
less, steaming  days  followed  each  on  the  last 
until  farming  folk  began  to  grow  grave  before 
a  steady  increase  of  water  on  the  land.  Much 
hay  stood  in  danger  and  some  ricks  had  been  al- 
ready ruined.  Many  theories  were  rife,  Uncle 
Chirg win's  being,  upon  the  whole,  the  most 
fatuous. 

"  'Tis  a  thunder-planet,"  he  told  his  nieces, 
"an'  till  us  get  a  rousin'  storm  o'  crooked  forks 
an'  heavy  thunder  this  rain'U  go  on  fallin'.  But 
not  so  much  as  a  flap  o'  the  collybran  *  do  us 
get  for  all  the  heat  o'  the  air.  I  should  knaw, 
if  any,  for  I  be  out  turnin'  night  into  day  an' 
markin'  the  water  in  the  valley  every  evenin' 
long  after  dark  now.  I'm  fearin'  graave  for 
the  big  stack;  an'  theer's  three  paarts  o'  last 
year's  hay  beside,  an'  two  tidy  lil  mows  of  the 
aftermath.  So  sure's  the  waters  do  rise  another 
foot  and  a  half,  'tis  'good-by'  to  the  whole  boil- 
in'.  Not  but  'twill  be  a  miracle  for  the  stream 
to  get  much  higher.  The  moor's  burstin'  wi' 
rain,  but  the  coffins  f  do  hold  it  up,  I  s'pose,  an' 
keep  it  aloft.  A  penn'orth  o'  frost  now  would 


*  Collyln^an — Sheet  lightning. 

f  Coffins — Ancient  raining  excavations. 


386  LYING    PROPHETS 

save  a  pound  of  produce  from  wan  end  o*  Cam- 
wall  to  t'other." 

Joan  spent  many  long  days  in  the  house  at 
this  time  and  practiced  an  unskillful  needle, 
while  her  thoughts  wandered  far  and  near 
through  the  sullen  weather  to  this  old  cross 
and  that.  Then  came  a  night  of  rainless  dark- 
ness through  which  past  augmentations  of  water 
still  thundered.  Nature  rested  for  some  hours 
before  her  final,  shattering  deluge,  but  the  brief 
peace  was  more  tremendous  than  rain  or  wind, 
for  a  mighty  foreboding  permeated  it,  and  all 
men  felt  the  end  was  not  yet,  though  none  could 
say  why  they  feared  the  silence  more  than  storm. 

It  happened  upon  this  black  night  that  Joan 
was  alone  in  the  kitchen.  Supper  had  been  but 
a  scrambling  meal  and  her  uncle  with  Amos 
Bartlett  and  all  the  men  on  the  farm  were  now 
somewhere  in  the  valley  under  the  darkness 
fighting  for  the  hay  with  rising  water.  Where 
Mary  was  just  then,  Joan  did  not  know.  Her 
thoughts  were  occupied  with  her  own  affairs, 
and  in  the  oppressive  silence  she  sat  watching 
some  little  moving  threadlike  concerns  which 
hung  in  a  row  through  a  crack  below  the  man- 
tel-piece above  the  open  fire.  They  were  the 
tails  of  mice  which  often  here  congregated  nigh 
the  warmth  and  sat  in  a  row,  themselves  in- 
visible. The  tails  moved,  and  Joan  noted  some 
shorter  tails  beside  long  ones,  telling  of  infant 
vermin  at  their  mothers'  sides.  In  the  silence 
she  could  hear  the  squeaking  of  them,  and  now 
and  then  she  talked  to  them  very  softly. 


LYING   PROPHETS  387 

"Thank  God,  you  lil  mice,  as  you  abbun  got 
no  brains  in  your  heads  an'  no  call  to  look  far  in 
the  future.  I  lay  you'm  happier  than  us,  wi' 
nort  to  fear  'bout  'cept  crumbs  an'  a  lew  snug 
spot  to  live  in." 

Thus  she  stumbled  on  the  lowest  note  of  pes- 
simism :  that  conscious  intelligence  is  a  supreme 
mistake.  But  the  significance  of  her  idea  she 
knew  not. 

Then  Joan  rose  up,  shivered  with  a  sudden 
sense  of  chill,  stamped  her  feet,  and  caused  the 
row  of  tails  below  the  mantel  to  vanish. 

"Goose-flaish  down  the  spine  do  mean  as 
theer's  feet  walkin'  'pon  my  graave,  I  s'pose," 
she  thought,  as  a  heavy  knock  at  the  front  door 
interrupted  her  reflections.  Hastening  to  open 
it,  Joan  found  the  postman — a  rare  visitor  at 
Drift.  He  handed  her  a  letter  and  prepared  to 
depart  immediately. 

"I'm  grievous  af eared  o'  Buryas  Bridge  to- 
night," he  said;  "when  I  corned  over,  two  hour 
back,  the  water  was  above  the  arches,  an',  so 
like's  not,  I  won't  get  'cross  'tall  if  it's  riz 
higher.  An'  somethin'  cruel's  comin',  I'll  lay 
my  life,  'fore  marnin'.  This  pitch-black  silence 
be  worse  than  the  noise  o'  the  rain." 

He  vanished  down  the  hill,  and,  returning  to 
the  kitchen,  Joan  lighted  a  candle  and  examined 
the  letter.  A  fit  of  trembling  shook  the  girl  to 
the  hidden  seat  of  her  soul  as  she  did  so,  for  her 
own  name  greeted  her,  in  neat  printed  letters 
akin  to  those  on  the  superscription  of  another 
letter  she  had  received  in  the  past.  From  John 


388  LYING    PROPHETS 

Barren  it  was  that  this  communication  came, 
and  the  reception  of  it  begot  a  wild  chaos  of 
mind  which  now  carried  Joan  headlong  back- 
ward. Images  swept  through  her  brain  with 
the  bewildering  rapidity  and  brilliance  of  light- 
ning flashes;  she  was  whirled  and  tossed  on  a 
riood  of  thoughts;  a  single  sad-eyed  figure  re- 
tained permanency  and  rose  clear  and  separated 
itself  from  the  phantasmagorial  procession  of 
personages  and  events  wending  through  her 
mind,  dissolving  each  into  the  other,  stretch- 
ing the  circumstances  of  eight  short  months  into 
an  eternity,  crowding  the  solemn  aisles  of  time 
past  with  shadows  of  those  emotions  which  had 
reigued  over  the  dead  spring  time  of  the  year 
and  were  themselves  long  dead.  Thus  she  stood 
for  a  space  of  vast  apparent  duration,  but  in 
reality  most  brief.  That  trifling  standpoint  in 
time  needed  for  a  dream  or  for  the  brain-picture 
of  his  past  which  dominates  the  mind  of  the 
drowning  was  all  that  had  sped  with  Joan. 
Then,  shaking  herself  clear  of  thought,  she 
found  her  candle,  which  burned  dim  when 
first  lighted,  was  only  now  melting  the  wax 
and  rising  to  its  full  flame.  A  mist  of  damp 
had  long  hung  on  the  inner  walls  of  the  kitchen 
at  Drift,  begotten  not  of  faulty  building  but  by 
the  peculiar  condition  of  the  atmosphere;  and 
as  the  candle  flickered  up  in  a  chamber  dark 
save  for  its  light  and  the  subdued  glow  of  a  low 
lire,  Joan  noticed  how  the  gathering  moisture 
on  the  walls  had  coalesced,  run  into  drops  and 
fallen,  streaking  the  misty  gray  with  bright 


LYING   PROPHETS        t  389 

bars    and    networks,   silvery   as    the    slime  of 
snails. 

With  shaking  hand,  she  set  the  candle  upon  a 
table,  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  it  and  opened 
her  letter.  For  a  moment  the  page  with  its  large 
printed  characters  danced  before  her  eyes,  then 
they  steadied  and  she  was  <:.Me  to  read.  Like  a 
message  from  one  long  dead  came  the  words; 
and  in  truth,  though  the  writer  lived,  he  wrote 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  grave.  John  Barren 
had  put  into  force  his  project,  which  was,  as 
may  be  remembered,  to  write  to  Joan  when  the 
end  of  his  journey  came  in  sight.  The  words 
were  carefully  chosen,  for  he  remembered  her 
sympathy  with  suffering  and  her  extensive  igno- 
rance. He  wrote  in  simple  language,  therefore, 
and  dwelt  on  his  own  helpless  condition,  exag- 
gerating it  to  some  extent. 

"  No.  6  Melbury  Gardens,  London. 
"MY  OWN  DEAR  LOVE — What  can  I  say  to 
make  you  know  what  has  kept  me  away  from 
you?  There  is  but  one  word  and  that  is  my 
poor  sick  and  suffering  body.  I  wrote  to  you 
and  tore  up  what  I  wrote,  for  I  loved  you  too 
much  to  ask  you  to  come  and  share  my  sad  life. 
It  was  very,  very  awful  to  be  away  and  know 
you  were  waiting  and  waiting  for  Jan;  yet  I 
could  not  come,  because  Mother  Nature  was  so 
hard.  Then  I  went  far  away  and  hoped  you 
had  forgotten  me.  Doctors  made  me  go  to  a 
place  over  the  sea  where  tall  palm  trees  grew  up 
out  of  a  dry  yellow  desert;  but  my  poor  lungs 


390  LYING    PROPHETS 

were  too  sick  to  get  well  again  and  I  came  home 
to  die.  Yes,  sweetheart,  you  will  forgive  me 
for  all  when  you  know  poor  lonely  Jan  will  soon 
be  gone.  He  cannot  live  much  longer,  and  he  is 
so  weak  now  that  he  has  no  more  power  to  fight 
against  the  love  of  Joan. 

"For  your  own  .rood,  dear  one,  I  made  myself 
keep  away  and  hid  myself  from  you.  Now  the 
little  life  left  to  me  cries  out  by  night  and  by  day 
for  you.  Joan,  my  own  true  love,  I  cannot  die 
until  I  have  seen  you  again.  Come  to  me,  Joan, 
love,  if  you  do  not  hate  me.  Come  to  me ;  come ; 
and  close  my  eyes  and  let  poor  Jan  have  the  one 
face  that  he  loves  quite  near  him  at  the  end. 
Even  your  picture  has  gone,  for  they  came  when 
I  was  away  and  took  it  and  put  it  in  a  place  with 
many  others  for  people  to  see.  And  all  men  and 
women  say  it  is  the  best  picture.  I  shall  be  dead 
before  they  send  it  back  to  me.  So  now  I  have 
nothing  but  the  thoughts  of  my  Joan.  Oh,  come 
to  me,  my  love,  if  you  can.  It  will  not  be  for 
long,  and  when  Jan  lies  under  the  ground  all 
that  he  has  is  yours.  I  have  'fought  so  hard  to 
keep  from  you  and  from  praying  you  to  come 
to  me,  but  I  can  fight  no  more.  My  home  is 
named  at  the  top  of  this  letter.  You  have  but 
to  enter  the  train  for  London  and  stop  in  it  until 
it  gets  to  the  end  of  its  journey.  My  servant 
shall  wait  each  day  for  your  coming.  I  can 
write  no  more,  I  can  only  pray  to  the  God  we 
both  love  to  bring  you  to  me.  And  if  you  come 
or  do  not  I  shall  have  the  same  great  true  love 
for  you.  I  will  die  alone  rather  than  trouble 


LYING   PROPHETS  391 

you  to  come  if  you  have  forgotten  me  and  not 
forgiven  me  for  keeping  silence.  God  bless  you, 
my  only  love.  JAN." 

This  feeble  stuff  rang  like  a  clarion  on  the  ear 
of  the  reader,  for  he  who  had  written  it  knew 
how  best  to  strike,  how  best  to  appeal  with  over- 
whelming force  to  Joan  Tregenza.  Her  mind 
plunged  straight  into  the  struggle  and  the  bil- 
lows of  the  storm,  sweeping  aside  lesser  obstruc- 
tions, were  soon  beating  against  the  new-built 
ramparts  of  faith.  The  rush  of  thought  which 
had  coursed  through  her  brains  before  reading 
the  letter  now  made  the  task  of  deciding  upon  it 
easier.  Indeed  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  any 
real  doubt  from  first  to  last  assailed  Joan's  de- 
cision. Faith  did  not  crumble,  but,  at  a  second 
glance,  appeared  to  her  wholly  compatible  with 
obedience  to  this  demand.  There  was  an  elec- 
tric force  in  every  word  of  the  letter.  It  proved 
Mister  Jan's  wondrous  nobility  of  character,  his 
unselfishness,  his  love.  He  had  suffered,  too, 
had  longed  eternally  for  her,  had  denied  him- 
self out  of  consideration  for  her  future  happi- 
ness, had  struggled  with  his  love,  and  only 
broken  down  and  given  way  to  it  in  the  shadow 
of  death.  Grief  shook  Joan  upon  this  thought, 
but  joy  was  uppermost.  The  long  months  of 
weary  suffering  faded  from  her  recollection  as 
nocturnal  mists  vanish  at  the  touch  of  the  sun's 
first  fire.  She  had  no  power  to  analyze  the  po- 
sition or  reflect  upon  the  various  courses  of  ac- 
tion the  man  might  have  taken  to  spare  her  so 


392 


rrfuch  agony.  She  accepted  his  bald  utterance 
word  for  word,  as  he  knew  she  would.  Every 
inclination  and  desire  swept  her  toward  him 
now.  His  cry  of  suffering,  his  love,  his  lone- 
liness, her  duty,  as  it  stood  blazoned  upon  her 
mind  ten  minutes  after  reading  his  letter;  the 
child  to  be  born  within  two  months— all  these 
considerations  united  to  establish  Joan's  mind 
at  this  juncture.  "Come  to  me!"  Those  were 
the  words  echoing  within  her  heart,  and  her 
soul  cried  upon  Christ  to  shorten  time  that  she 
might  reach  him  the  sooner.  Before  the  world 
was  next  awake,  she  would  be  upon  her  way; 
l>efore  another  night  fell,  Mister  Jan's  arms 
would  be  round  her.  The  long,  dreary  night- 
mare had  ended  for  her  at  last.  Then  came 
tears  of  bitter  remorse,  for  she  saw  how  his  love 
had  never  left  her,  how  he  had  been  true  as 
steel,  while  she,  misled  by  appearances,  had  lost 
faith  and  lapsed  into  forgetfulness.  A  wild,  un- 
reasoning yearning  superior  to  time  and  space 
and  the  service  of  railways  got  hold  upon  her. 
* ' Come  to  me, "  " Come  to  me, ' '  sounded  in  Joan's 
ears  in  the  live  voice  she  had  loved  and  lost  and 
found  again.  An  hour's  delay,  a  minute's,  a 
moment's  seemed  a  crime.  Yet  delay  there 
must  be,  but  the  tension  and  terrific  excitement 
of  her  whole  being  at  this  period  demanded  some 
immediate  outlet  in  action.  She  wanted  to  talk 
to  Uncle  Chirgwin,  and  she  desired  instant  in- 
formation upon  the  subject  of  her  journey. 
First  she  thought  of  seeking  the  farmer  iu  the 
valley;  then  it  struck  her,  the  hour  being  not 


LYING   PROPHETS  393 

later  than  eight  o'clock,  that  by  going  into  Pen- 
zance  she  might  learn  at  what  time  the  morning 
train  departed  to  London. 

Out  of  doors  it  was  inky  black,  very  silent, 
very  oppressive.  Joan  called  Mary  twice  before 
departing,  but  received  no  answer.  Indeed  the 
house  was  empty,  though  she  did  not  know  it. 
Finally,  thrusting  the  letter  into  her  bosom,  tak- 
ing her  hat  and  cloak  from  a  nail  in  the  kitchen 
and  putting  on  a  pair  of  walking  shoes,  the  girl 
went  abroad.  Her  present  medley  of  thoughts 
begot  a  state  of  exceeding  nervous  excitation. 
For  the  letter  touched  the  two  poles  of  extreme 
happiness  and  utmost  possible  sorrow.  "Mister 
Jan"  was  calling  her  to  him  indeed,  but  only 
calling  her  that  she  might  see  him  die.  Care- 
less of  her  steps,  soothed  unconsciously  by  rapid 
motion,  she  walked  from  the  farm,  her  mind 
full  of  joy  and  grief;  and  the  night,  silent  no 
longer  for  her,  was  full  of  a  voice  crying  "Come 
to  me,  Joan,  love,  come!" 


CHAPTER  SIX 

THE  FLOOD 

IN  the  coomb  beneath  Drift,  flashing  as 
though  red-hot  from  a  theater  of  Cimmerian 
blackness,  certain  figures,  flame-lighted,  flick- 
ered hurriedly  this  way  and  that  about  a  dark 
and  monstrous  pile  which  rose  in  their  midst. 


394  LYING   PROPHETS 

From  the  adjacent  hill,  superstitious  watchers 
might  have  supposed  that  they  beheld  some 
demoniac  throng  newly  burst  out  of  the  bowels 
of  earth  and  to  be  presently  re-engulfed;  but 
seen  nearer,  the  toiling  creatures,  fighting  with 
all  their  hearts  and  souls  to  save  a  haystack 
from  flood,  had  merely  excited  human  interest 
and  commiseration.  Farmer  Chirgwin  and  his 
men  were  girt  as  to  the  legs  in  old-fashioned 
hay-bands ;  some  held  torches  while  others  toiled 
with  ropes  to  anchor  the  giant  rick  against  the 
gathering  waters.  There  was  no  immediate 
fear,  for  the  pile  still  stood  a  clear  foot  above 
the  stream  on  a  gentle  undulation  distant  nearly 
two  yards  from  the  present  boundary  of  the 
swollen  river.  But,  on  the  landward  side,  an- 
other danger  threatened,  because  in  that  quarter 
the  meadow  sank  in  a  slight  hollow  which  had 
now  changed  to  a  lake  fed  by  a  brisk  rivulet 
from  the  main  river.  The  great  rick  thus  stood 
almost  insulated,  and  much  further  uprising  of 
the  flood  would  place  it  in  a  position  not  to  be 
approached  by  man  without  danger.  Above  the 
stack,  distant  about  five-and-twenty  yards, 
stood  a  couple  of  stout  pollarded  willows,  and 
by  these  Uncle  Chirgwin  had  decided  to  moor 
his  hay,  trusting  that  they  might  hold  the  great 
mass  of  it  secure  even  though  the  threatened 
flood  swept  away  its  foundations.  Nine  figures 
worked  amain,  and  to  them  approached  a  tenth, 
appearing  from  the  darkness,  skirting  the  lake 
and  splashing  through  the  streamlet  which  fed 
it.  Mary  Chirgwin  it  was  who  now  arrived— a 


LYING   PROPHETS  395 

grotesque  figure  with  her  gown  and  petticoats 
fastened  high  and  wearing  on  her  legs  a  pair  of  her 
uncle's  leather  gaiters.  Mary  had  been  up  to  the 
farm  for  more  rope,  but  the  clothesline  was  all 
that  she  could  find,  and  this  she  now  returned 
with.  Already  three  ropes  had  been  passed 
round  the  rick  and  made  fast  to  the  willows, 
but  none  among  them  was  of  great  stoutness, 
nor  had  they  been  tied  at  an  elevation  best 
calculated  to  resist  a  possible  strain.  Amos 
Bartlett  took  the  line  from  Mary  and  set  to  work 
with  many  assistants ;  while  the  farmer  himself, 
waving  a  torch  and  stumping  hither  and  thither, 
now  directed  Bartlett,  now  encouraged  two  men 
who  worked  with  all  their  might  at  the  cutting 
of  a  trench  from  the  lake  i^  order  that  this 
dangerous  body  of  water  might  be  drained  back 
to  the  main  stream.  The  flame-light  danced  in 
many  a  flash  and  splash  over  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  face  of  the  inland  pond.  Indeed  it  re- 
flected like  a  glass  at  present,  for  no  wind  fret- 
ted it,  neither  did  a  drop  of  rain  fall.  Intense, 
watchful  silence  held  that  hour.  The  squash 
of  men's  feet  in  the  mud,  the  soft  swirl  of  the 
water,  the  cry  of  voices  alone  disturbed  the 
night. 

"God  be  praised!  I  do  think  'tis  'bating," 
cried  the  farmer  presently.  He  ran  every  few 
minutes  to  the  water  and  examined  a  stake 
hammered  into  it  a  foot  from  the  edge.  It 
seemed,  as  far  as  might  be  judged  by  such  fitful 
light  and  rough  measurement,  that  the  river 
had  sunk  an  inch  or  two,  but  it  was  running  in 


396  LYING    PROPHETS 

undulations,  and  what  its  muddy  mass  bad  lost 
in  volume  was  gained  in  speed.  The  water 
chattered  and  hissed;  and  Amos  Bartlett,  who 
next  made  a  survey,  declared  that  the  flood  had 
by  no  means  waned,  but  rather  risen.  Then, 
the  last  ropes  being  disposed  to  the  best  advan- 
tage, all  joined  the  laborers  who  were  digging. 
Twenty  minutes  later,  however,  and  before  the 
trench  was  more  than  three  parts  finished,  there 
came  a  tremendous  change.  Turning  hastily  to 
the  river,  Bartlett  uttered  a  shout  of  alarm  and 
called  for  light.  He  had  approached  the  tell- 
tale stake,  and  suddenly,  before  he  reached  it, 
found  his  feet  in  the  water.  The  river  was  ris- 
ing with  fierce  rapidity  at  last,  and  five  minutes 
later  began  to  lick  at  the  edge  of  the  hay-rick, 
and  churn  along  with  a  strange  hidden  force 
and  devil  in  it.  The  pace  increased  with  the 
volume,  and  told  of  some  prodigious  outburst  on 
the  moor.  The  uncanny  silence  of  the  swelling 
water  as  it  slipped  downward  was  a  curious 
feature  of  it  in  this  phase.  Chirgwin  and  his 
men  huddled  together  at  the  side  of  the  rick; 
then  Bartlett  held  up  his  hand  and  spoke. 
"Hark  'e  all !  'Tis  comin'  now,  by  God !" 
They  kept  silence  and  listened  with  straining 
ears  and  frightened  eyes,  fire-rimmed  by  the 
flickering  torchlight.  A  sound  came  from  afar 
— a  sound  not  uumelodious  but  singular  beyond 
power  of  language  to  express — a  whisper  of 
sinister  significance  to  him  who  knew  its  mean- 
ing, of  sheer  mystery  to  all  others.  A  murmur 
filled  the  air,  a  murmur  of  undefined  noises  still 


LYING   PROPHETS  397 

far  distant.  They  might  have  been  human,  they 
might  have  arisen  from  the  flight  and  terror  of 
beasts,  from  the  movement  of  vast  bodies,  from 
the  reverberations  of  remote  music;  Earth  or 
Heaven  might  have  bred  them,  or  the  upper 
chambers  of  the  air  midway  between.  They 
spoke  of  terrific  energies,  of  outpourings  of  force, 
of  elemental  chaos  come  again,  of  a  crown  of 
unimagined  horror  set  upon  the  night. 

All  listened  fearfully  while  the  solemn  ca- 
dences crept  on  their  ears,  fascinated  them  like 
a  siren  song,  wakened  wild  dread  of  tribulations 
and  terrors  unknown  till  now.  It  was  indeed  a 
sound  but  seldom  heard  and  wholly  unfamiliar 
to  those  beside  the  stack  save  one. 

"  'Tis  the  callin'  o'  the  cleeves,"  said  Uncle 
Chirgwin. 

"Nay,  man,  'tis  a  live,  ragin'  storm  corned  off 
the  sea  an'  tearin'  ower  the  airth  like  a  legion 
out  o'  hell!  'Tis  the  floodgates  o'  God  opened 
you'm  hearin' !  Ay,  an'  the  four  winds  at  each 
other's  throats,  an'  a  outburst  o'  all  the  springs 
'pon  the  hills!  'Tis  death  and  ruin  for  the  whole 
country-side  as  be  yelling  up-long  now.  An' 
'tis  comin'  faster'n  thot." 

As  Bartlett  spoke,  the  voice  of  the  tempest 
grew  rapidly  nearer,  all  mystery  faded  out  of  it 
and  its  murmuring  changed  to  a  hoarse  rattle. 
Thunder  growled  a  bass  to  the  shriek  of  coming 
winds  and  a  flash  of  distant  lightning  bridged 
the  head  of  the  coomb  with  a  crooked  snake  of 
fire. 

"Us'd  best  to  get  'pon  high  land  out  o'  this," 


398  LYING    PROPHETS 

shouted  Bartlett.  "All  as  men  can  do  us  have 
done.  The  hay's  in  the  hand  o'  Providence,  but 
I  wouldn't  be  perched  on  top  o'  that  stack  not 
for  diamonds  all  the  same." 

A  cry  cut  him  short.  Mary  had  turned  aud 
found  the  way  to  higher  ground  already  cut  off. 
The  lake  was  rising  under  their  eyes,  and  that  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  waters  had  already 
reached  the  trench  cut  for  them,  and  now  tum- 
bled in  a  torrent  back  to  the  parent  stream. 
Escape  in  this  direction  was  clearly  impossible. 
It  only  remained  to  wade  through  the  head  of 
the  lake,  and  that  without  a  moment's  delay. 
Mary  herself,  holding  a  torch,  went  first  through 
water  above  her  knees  and  the  men  hastily  fol- 
lowed, Uncle  Ghirgwin  coming  last  and  being 
nearly  carried  off  his  short  legs  as  he  turned  to 
view  the  rick.  Once  through  the  water,  all  were 
in  safety,  for  the  meadow  sloped  steeply  upward. 
An  increasing  play  of  lightning  made  the  torches 
useless,  and  they  were  dropped,  while  the  party 
pressed  close  beneath  an  overhanging  hedge 
which  ran  along  the  upper  boundary  of  the 
meadow.  From  this  vantage-ground  they  be- 
held a  spectacle  unexampled  in  the  memory  of 
any  among  them. 

Screaming  like  some  incarnate  and  mad  mani- 
festation of  all  the  elements  massed  in  one,  the 
hurricane  launched  itself  upon  that  valley.  As 
a  wall  the  wind  heralded  the  water,  while  forked 
lightnings,  flaming  above  both,  tore  the  black 
darkness  into  jagged  rags  and  lighted  a  chaog  of 
yellow  foaming  torrent  which  battled  with  livid 


LYING   PROPHETS  399 

front  straight  down  the  heart  of  the  coomb. 
The  swollen  river  was  lost  in  the  torrent  of  it; 
and  the  hiss  of  the  rain  was  drowned  by  its 
sound. 

So  Nature's  full,  hollowed  hand  ran  over 
lightning-lighted  to  the  organ  music  of  the 
thunder;  but  for  these  horror-stricken  watchers 
the  majestic  phenomena  sweeping  before  them 
held  no  splendor  and  prompted  no  admiration. 
They  only  saw  ruin  tearing  at  the  roots  of  the 
land ;  they  only  imagined  drowned  beasts  float- 
ing before  them  belly  upward,  scattered  hay 
hurried  to  the  sea,  wasted  crops,  a  million  tons 
of  precious  soil  torn  off  the  fields,  orchards  deso- 
lated, bridges  and  roads  destroyed.  For  them 
misery  stared  out  of  the  lightning  and  starva- 
tion rode  upon  the  flood.  The  roar  of  water 
answering  the  thunder  above  it  was  to  their  ears 
Earth  groaning  against  the  rod,  and  right  well 
they  knew  that  the  pale  torrent  was  drowning 
those  summer  labors  which  represented  money 
and  food  for  the  on-coming  of  the  long  winter 
months.  They  stared,  silent  and  dumb,  under 
the  rain;  they  knew  that  the  kernel  of  near  a 
year's  toil  was  riding  away  upon  the  livid  tor- 
rent ;  that  the  higher  meadows,  held  absolutely 
safe,  were  half  under  water  now ;  that  the  flood 
tumbling  under  the  blue  fire  most  surely  held 
sheep  and  cattle  in  its  depths ;  that  tons  of  up- 
land hay  swam  upon  it;  that,  like  enough,  dead 
men  also  turned  and  twisted  there  in  a  last  mad 
journey  to  the  sea. 

A  passing  belief  that  their  labors  might  save 


400  LYING   PROPHETS 

the  stack  sprung  up  in  the  breast  of  one  alone. 
Uncle  Chirgwin  trusted  Providence  and  hit- 
hempen  ropes  and  clothesline;  but  it  was  a 
childish  hope,  and,  gazing  open-mouthed  upon 
that  swelling,  hurtling  cataract  of  roaring 
water,  none  shared  it.  An  almost  continuous 
mist  of  livid  light  crossed  and  recrossed,  fes- 
tooned and  cut  by  its  own  crinkled  sources,  re- 
vealed the  progress  of  the  flood,  and,  heedless 
of  themselves,  Uncle  Chirgwin  and  his  men 
watched  the  fate  of  the  stack,  now  rising  very 
pale  of  hue  above  the  water,  seen  through  shin- 
ing curtains  of  rain.  First  the  torrent  tumbled 
and  rose  about  it,  and  then  a  sudden  tremor 
and  turning  of  the  mass  told  that  the  rick 
floated.  As  it  twisted  the  weak  ropes,  receiv- 
ing the  strain  in  turn,  snapped  one  after  an- 
other ;  then  the  great  stack  moved  solemnly  for- 
ward, stuck  fast,  moved  again,  lost  its  center  of 
gravity  and  foundered  like  a  ship.  Under  the 
lightning  they  saw  it  heave  upward  upon  one 
side,  plunge  forward  against  the  torrent  which 
had  swept  its  base  from  beneath  it,  and  vanish. 
The  farmer  heaved  a  bitter  groan. 

"Dear  God,  that  siVh  things  can  be  in  a 
Christian  land,"  he  cried.  "All  gone,  this  year, 
an'  last,  an'  the  aftermath;  an'  Lard  He  knawe 
what  be  doin'  in  the  valley  bottom.  I  wish  the 
light  may  strike  me  dead  wheer  I  stand,  for  I  be 
a  blot  afore  Him,  else  I'd  never  be  made  to  suf- 
fer like  this  here.  Awnly  if  any  man  among  'e 
will  up  an'  tell  me  what  I've  done  I'll  thank  en . " 

"  'Tis  the  land  as  have  sinned,  not  you,"  said 


LYING   PROPHETS  401 

Mary  "This  reaches  more'n  us  o'  Drift.  Come 
your  ways  an'  get  out  o'  these  clothes,  else  you'll 
catch  your  death.  Come  to  the  house,  all  of  'e," 
she  cried  to  the  rest.  "Theer  ban't  no  more  for 
us  to  do  till  marnin'  light." 

"If  ever  it  do  come,"  groaned  the  man 
Bartlett.  "So  like's  not  the  end  o'  the  world 
be  here;  an'  I'd  be  fust  to  hollo  it,  awnly 
theer's  more  water  than  fire  here  when  all's 
said-,  an'  the  airth's  to  be  burned,  not 
drowned. ' ' 

"Let  a  come  when  a  will  now,"  gasped  an 
aged  man  as  the  drenched  party  moved  slowly 
away  upward  to  the  farm;  "our  ears  be  tuned 
to  the  trump  o'  God,  for  nort — no,  not  the 
screech  o'  horns  blawed  by  all  the  angels  in 
heaven — could  sound  awfu^r  than  the  tantarra 
o'  this  gert  tempest.  I,  Gaffer  Polglaze,  be  the 
auldest  piece  up  Drift,  but  I  never  heard  tell  o' 
no  sich  noise,  let  alone  havin'  my  awn  ears 
flattened  wi'  it." 

They  climbed  the  steep  lane  to  the  farm,  and 
the  wind  began  to  drown  the  more  distant  roar 
of  the  water.  Rain  fell  more  heavily  than  be- 
fore, and  the  full  heart  of  the  storm  crashed  and 
flamed  over  their  heads  as  Drift  was  reached. 

Dawn  trembled  out  upon  a  tremendous  chap- 
ter of  disasters,  still  fresh  in  the  memory  of 
many  who  witnessed  it.  A  gray,  sullen  morn- 
ing, with  sky-glimpses  of  blue,  hastily  shown 
and  greedily  hidden,  broke  over  Western  Corn- 
wall and  uncovered  the  handiwork  of  a  flood 


402  LYING    PROPHETS 

more  savage  in  its  fury  and  far-reaching  in  its 
effects  than  man's  memory  could  parallel — a 
flood  which  already  shrunk  fast  backward  from 
its  own  havoc.  To  describe  a  single  one  of  those 
valleys  through  which  small  rivers  usually  ran 
to  the  sea  is  to  describe  them  all.  Thus  the  tor- 
rent which  raved  down  the  coomb  beneath  Drift, 
and  carried  Uncle  Chirgwin's  massive  hayrick 
with  it  like  a  child's  toy-boat,  had  also  uprooted 
acres  of  gooseberry  bushes  and  raspberry  canes, 
torn  apple  trees  from  the  ground,  laid  waste  ex- 
tensive tracts  of  ripe  produce  and  carried  ripen- 
ing roots  by  thousands  into  the  sea.  Beneath 
the  orchards,  as  the  flood  subsided,  there  ap- 
peared great  tracts  of  nakedness  where  banks  of 
stone  had  been  torn  out  of  the  land  and  scattered 
upon  it;  dead  beasts  stuck  jammed  in  the  low 
forks  of  trees;  swine,  sheep  and  calves  appeared, 
cast  up  in  fantastic  places,  strangled  by  the 
water;  sandy  wastes,  stripped  of  every  living 
leaf  and  blade,  ran  like  banks  where  no  banks 
formerly  existed,  and  here  and  there  from  their 
midst  stuck  out  naked  boughs  of  upturned  trees, 
fragments  of  man's  contrivances,  or  the  legs  of 
dead  beasts.  Looking  up  the  coomb,  desolation 
was  writ  large  and  the  utmost  margins  of  the 
flood  clearly  recorded  on  branch  and  bough, 
where  rubbish  which  had  floated  to  the  fringe 
of  the  flood  was  caught  and  hung  aloft.  Below, 
as  the  waters  gained  volume  and  force,  Buryas 
Bridge,  an  ancient  structure  of  thro-  arches 
beneath  which  the  trout-stream  peacefully  bab- 
bled under  ordinary  conditions,  was  swept  head- 


LYING    PROPHETS  403 

long  away  and  the  houses  hard  by  flooded; 
while  the  greatest  desolation  had  fallen  on 
those  orchards  lying  lowest  in  the  valley.  In- 
deed the  nearer  the  flood  approached  Newlyn 
the  more  tremendous  had  been  the  ravage 
wrought  by  it.  The  orchards  of  Talcarne  val- 
ley were  ruined  as  though  artillery  had  swept 
them,  and  of  the  lesser  crops  scarce  any  at 
all  remained.  Then,  bursting  down  Street-an- 
nowan,  as  that  lane  is  'called,  the  waters  run- 
ning high  where  their  courses  narrowed, 
swamped  sundry  cottages  and  leaped  like  a  wolf 
on  the  low-lying  portion  of  Newlyn.  Here  it 
burst  through  the  alleys  and  narrow  passages, 
drowned  the  basements  of  many  tenements,  iso- 
lated cottages,  stores  and  granaries,  threatened 
nearly  a  hundred  lives  startled  from  sleep  by  its 
sudden  assault.  Then,  under  the  raging  weather 
and  in  that  babel  of  angry  waters,  brave  deeds 
were  done  by  the  fisher  folk,  who  chanced  to  be 
ashore.  Grave  personal  risks  were  hazarded  by 
many  a  man  in  that  turbid  flood,  and  not  a  few 
women  and  children  were  rescued  with  utmost 
danger  to  their  saviors'  lives.  Yet  the  petty 
rivalry  of  split  and  riven  creeds  actuated  not  a 
few  even  at  that  time  of  peril,  and  while  life 
was  allowed  sacred  and  no  man  turned  a  deaf 
ear  to  the  cry  of  woman  or  child,  with  property 
the  case  was  altered  and  sects  lifted  not  a  finger 
each  to  help  the  other  in  the  saving  of  furniture 
and  effects. 

Newlyn  furnished  but  one  theater  of  a  des- 
olation which  covered  wide  regions.     At  Pen- 


404  LYING    PROPHETS 

zance,  the  Laregan  River  flooded  all  the  low- 
lands as  it  swept  with  prodigious  cataracts  to 
the  sea;  mighty  lakes  stretched  between  Pen- 
zance  and  Gulval ;  the  brooklets  of  Ponsandine 
and  Coombe,  swollen  to  torrents,  bore  crushing 
destruction  upon  the  valleys  through  which  they 
fell.  .Bleu  Bridge  with  its  ancient  inscribed 
"long  stone"  was  swept  into  the  bed  of  the  Pon- 
sandine, and  here,  as  in  other  low-lying  lands, 
many  tons  of  hay  were*  torn  from  their  founda- 
tions and  set  adrift.  At  Church  town  the  rain- 
fall precipitated  off  the  slopes  of  Castle-an-dinas 
begot  vast  torrents  which,  upon  their  roaring 
way,  tore  the  very  heart  out  of  steep  and  stony 
lanes,  flooded  farmyards,  plowed  up  miles  of 
hillside,  leaped  the  wall  of  the  cemetery  below 
and  spread  twining  yellow  fingers  among  the 
graves. 

Three  hundred  tons  of  rain  fell  to  the  acre  in 
the  immediate  tract  of  that  terrific  storm,  and  the 
world  of  misery,  loss  and  suffering  poured  forth 
on  the  humble  dwellers  of  the  land  only  came  to 
be  estimated  in  its  bitter  magnitude  during  the 
course  of  the  winter  which  followed. 

Ashore  it  was  not  immediately  known  whether 
any  loss  of  human  life  had  added  crowning  hor- 
ror to  the  catastrophe,  but  evil  news  came 
quickly  off  the  sea.  Mourning  fell  upon  Mouse- 
hole  for  the  crews  of  two  among  its  fisher  fleet 
who  were  lost  that  night  upon  the  way  toward 
Plymouth  waters  to  join  the  herring  fishery; 
and  Newlyn  heard  the  wail  of  a  robbed  mother. 

At  Drift  the  farmhouse  was  found  to  hold  a 


LYING   PROPHETS  405 

mystery  soon  after  the  day  had  broken.  Joan 
Tregenza,  whose  condition  rendered  it  impossi- 
ble for  her  to  actively  assist  at  the  struggle  in 
the  coomb,  did  not  retire  early  on  the  previous 
night,  as  her  family  supposed,  and  Mary,  enter- 
ing her  room  at  breakfast-time,  found  it  empty. 
There  was  no  sign  of  the  girl  and  no  indication 
of  anything  which  could  explain  her  absence. 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

OUT  OF  THE  DEEP 

AT  the  dawn  of  the  day  which  followed  upon 
the  great  storm,  while  yet  the  sea  ran  high  and 
the  gale  died  hard,  many  tumbling  luggers,  some 
maimed,  began  to  dot  the  wind-torn  waters  of 
Mounts  Bay.  The  tide  was  out,  but  within  the 
shelter  of  the  shore  which  rose  between  Newlyn 
and  the  course  of  the  wind,  the  returning  boats 
found  safety  at  their  accustomed  anchorage ;  and 
as  one  by  one  they  made  the  little  roads,  as  boat 
after  boat  came  ashore  from  the  fleet,  tears,  hys- 
teric screams  and  deep-voiced  thanks  to  the  Al- 
mighty arose  from  the  crowd  of  men  and  women 
massed  at  the  extremity  of  Newlyn  pier  beneath 
the  lighthouse.  Cheers  and  many  a  shake  of 
hand  greeted  every  party  as,  weary-eyed  and 
worn,  it  landed  and  climbed  the  slippery  steps. 
From  such  moments  even  those  still  in  the 
shadow  of  terrible  fear  plucked  a  little  courage 


406  LYING    PROPHETS 

and  brightened  hopes.  Then  each  of  the  re- 
turned fishermen,  with  his  own  clinging  to  him, 
set  face  homeward — a  rejoicing  stream  of  little 
separate  processions,  every  one  heralding  a  saved 
life.  There  crept  thus  inland  wives  smiling 
through  the  mist  of  dead  tears,  old  mothers 
hobbling  beside  their  bearded  sons,  young  moth- 
ers pouring  blessing  on  proud  sailor  boys,  sweet- 
hearts, withered  ancients,  daughters,  sons,  little 
children.  Sad  beyond  power  of  thought  were 
the  hearts  of  all  as  they  had  hastened  to  the 
pierhead  at  early  morning  light;  now  the  sor- 
rowful still  remained  there,  but  those  who  came 
away  rejoiced,  for  none  returned  without  their 
treasures. 

Thoinasiu  stood  with  many  another  care- 
stricken  soul,  but  her  fears  grew  greater  as 
the  delay  increased;  for  the  Tregenza  lugger 
was  big  and  fast,  yet  many  boats  of  less  fame 
had  already  come  home.  All  the  fishermen  told 
the  same  story.  Bursting  out  of  an  ominous 
peace  the  storm  had  fallen  suddenly  upon  them 
when  westward  of  the  Scilly  Islands.  One  or 
two  were  believed  to  have  made  neighboring 
ports  in  the  isles,  but  the  lleet  was  driven  before 
the  gale  and  had  experienced  those  grave  hazards 
reserved  for  small  vessels  in  a  heavy  sea.  That 
all  had  weathered  the  night  seemed  a  circum- 
stance too  happy  to  hope  for,  but  Newlyn  hearts 
rose  high  as  boat  after  boat  came  back  in  safety. 
Then  a  dozen  men  hastened  to  Mrs.  Tregenza 
with  the  good  news  that  her  husband's  vessel 
was  in  sight. 


LYING   PROPHETS  407 

"She've  lost  her  mizzen  by  the  looks  on  it," 
said  a  fisherman,  "an'  that's  more'n  good 
reason  for  her  bein'  'mong  the  last  to  make 
home." 

But  Thomasin's  hysterical  joy  was  cut  short 
by  the  most  unexpected  appearance  of  Mary 
Chirgwin  on  the  pier.  She  had  visited  the 
white  cottage  to  find  it  locked  up  and  empty; 
she  had  then  joined  the  concourse  at  the  pier- 
head, feeling  certain  that  the  Tregenza  boat 
must  still  be  at  sea;  and  she  now  added  her  con- 
gratulations to  the  rest,  then  told  Mrs.  Tregenza 
her  news. 

"I  be  corned  to  knaw  if  you've  heard  or  seen 
anything  o'  Joan.  'Tis  'mazin'  straange,  but 
her've  gone,  like  a  dream,  an'  us  caan't  find  a 
sign  of  her.  What  wi'  she  an'  terrible  doin's 
'pon  the  land  last  night,  uncle's  'bout  beside  his- 
self.  Us  left  her  in  the  kitchen,  an'  when  we 
corned  back  from  tryin'  to  save  the  hay  she  was 
nowheer.  Of  coorse,  us  thot  she'd  gone  to  her 
bed.  But  she  weern't,  an'  this  mornin'  we 
doan't  see  a  atom  of  her,  but  finds  a  envelope 
empty  'pon  the  kitchen  floor.  'Twas  addressed 
to  Joan  an'  corned  from  Lunnon." 

"Aw  jimmery!  She've  gone  to  en  arter  all, 
then — an'  in  her  state." 

"The  floods  was  out,  you  see.  Her  might 
have  marched  off  to  Penzance  to  larn  'bout  the 
manner  o'  gwaine  to  Lunnon  an'  bin  stopped  in 
home-comin';  or  her  might  have  slept  in  Pen- 
zance to  catch  a  early  train  away." 

"Iss,  or  her  might  a  got  in  the  water,  poor 


408  LYING    PROPHETS 

lamb,"  said  Thomasin,  who  never  left  the  dark 
side  of  a  position  unconsidered.  Mary's  face 
showed  that  the  same  idea  had  struck  her. 

"God  grant  'tedn'  nothin'  like  that,  though 
maybe  'twould  be  better  than  t'other.  Us 
caan't  say  she've  run  away,  but  I  thot  I'd 
tell  'e  how  things  is  so's  you  could  spread  it 
abroad  that  she'm  lost.  Maybe  us'll  hear  some- 
thin'  'fore  the  day's  much  aulder.  I  be  gwaine 
to  Penzance  now  an'  I'll  let  'e  knaw  if  theer's 
anything  to  tell.  Good-by,  an'  I  be  right  glad 
all's  well  wi'  your  husband,  though  I  don't  hold 
wi'  his  'pinions." 

But  Mrs.  Tregenza  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  lugger  which  had  now  got  to 
its  anchorage  and  looked  strange  and  unnatural 
shorn  of  its  lesser  mast.  She  saw  the  moorings 
dragged  up ;  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  boat, 
which  had  rolled  and  tumbled  at  them  all  night, 
was  baled.  Thereupon  men  took  their  seats  in 
her  and  began  to  row  toward  the  harbor.  It 
seemed  that  Gray  Michael  was  steering,  and  his 
crew  clearly  pulled  very  weak  and  short,  for 
their  strength  was  spent. 

Then,  as  they  came  between  the  arms  of  tho 
harbor,  as  they  shipped  oars  and  glided  to  the 
steps,  Tregenza's  hybrid  yellow  dog,  who  ac- 
companied the  fisherman  in  all  bis  goings, 
jumped  ashore  barking  and  galloped  up  the 
slippery  steps  with  joy;  while,  at  the  same 
moment,  a  woman's  sharp  cry  cut  the  air  like 
a  knife  and  two  wild  eyes  looked  down  into  the 
boat. 


LYING   PROPHETS  409 

"Wheer'm  the  bwoy,  Michael?  Oh,  my  good 
God,  wheer'm  Tom?" 

Everybody  strained  silently  to  hear  the  an- 
swer, but  though  the  fisherman  looked  up,  he 
made  no  reply.  The  boat  steadied  and  one  after 
another  the  men  in  her  went  ashore,  Tregenza 
mounting  the  steps  last.  His  wife  broke  the 
silence.  Only  a  murmur  of  thankfulness  had 
greeted  the  other  men,  for  their  faces  showed  a 
tragedy.  They  regarded  their  leader  fearfully, 
and  there  was  something  more  than  death  in 
their  eyes. 

"Wheer'm  the  bwoy— Tom?  For  the  love  of 
God,  speak,  caan't  'e?  Why  be  you  all  dumb 
an'  glazin'  that  awful!"  cried  the  woman,  know- 
ing the  truth  before  she  heard  it.  Then  she  list- 
ened to  the  elder  Pritchard,  who  whispered  his 
wife,  and  so  fell  into  a  great  convulsion  of  rav- 
ing, dry-eyed  sorrow. 

"Oh,  my  bwoy!  Drownded — my  awn  lil  pre- 
cious Tom!  God  a  mercy!  Dead!  Then  let 
me  die  tu!" 

She  gave  vent  to  extravagant  and  savage  grief 
after  the  manner  of  her  kind.  She  would  have 
torn  her  hair  and  thrown  herself  off  the  quay 
but  for  kindly  hands  which  restrained. 

"God  rot  you,  an'  blast  you,  an'  burn  you 
up!"  she  screamed,  shaking  her  fists  at  the  sea. 
"I  knawed  this  would  be  the  end.  I  dreamed 
it  'fore  'e  was  born.  Doan't  'e  hold  me  back, 
you  poor  fools.  Let  me  gaw  an'  bury  myself  in 
the  same  graave  along  wi'  en.  My  Tom,  my 


410  LYING   PROPHETS 

Tom!     I  awnly  had  but  wan — awnly  wan,  an* 
now — " 

She  wailed  and  wrung  her  hands,  while  rough 
voices  filled  her  ears  with  such  comfort  as  words 
could  bring  to  her. 

"Rest  easy,  bide  at  peace,  dear  sawl."  "  'Tis 
the  Lard's  doin',  mother;  an'  the  lil  bwoy's  bet- 
ter off  now."  "Take  it  calm,  my  poor  good 
creature."  "Try  an'  bring  tears  to  your  eyes, 
theer's  a  dear  wummon." 

Tears  finally  came  to  her  relief,  and  she  wept 
and  moaned  while  friends  supported  her,  look- 
ing with  wonder  upon  Michael,  her  husband. 
He  stood  aloof  with  the  men  about  him.  But 
never  a  word  he  spoke  to  his  wife  or  any  other. 
His  eyes  dilated  and  had  lost  their  steady  for- 
ward glance,  though  a  mad  misery  lighted  them 
with  flashes  that  came  and  went ;  his  face  was  a 
very  burrow  of  time,  seared  and  trenched  with 
pits  and  wrinkles.  His  hat  was  gone,  his  hair 
blew  wild,  the  strong  set  of  his  mouth  had  van- 
ished ;  his  head,  usually  held  so  high,  hung  for- 
ward on  a  shrunken  neck. 

The  brothers  Pritchard  told  their  story  as  a 
party  conducted  Thomasin  back  to  her  home. 
For  the  moment  Gray  Michael  stood  irresolute 
and  alone,  save  for  his  dog,  which  ran  round 
him. 

"Us  was  tackin'  when  it  fust  began  to  blaw, 
an'  all  bustlin'  'bout  in  the  dark,  when  the  main- 
sail went  lerrickin'  'cross  an'  knocked  the  poor 
dam  bwoy  owerboard  into  as  ugly  a  rage  o' 
water  as  ever  I  seed.  Tom  had  his  sea-boots 


LYING   PROPHETS  411 

on,  an'  every  sawl  'pon  the  bwoat  knavved  'twas 
all  up  as  soon  as  we  lost  en.  We  shawed  a  light 
an'  tumbled  'bout  for  quarter  o'  an  hour  wi'  the 
weather  gettin'  wicked.  Then  corned  a  scat  as 
mighty  near  thrawed  us  'pon  our  beam-ends, 
an'  took  the  mizzen  'long  wi'  it.  Tis  terrible 
bad  luck,  sure  'nough,  for  never  a  tidier  bwoy 
went  feeshin' ;  but  theer's  worse  to  tell  'e.  Look 
at  that  gert,  good  man,  Tregenza.  Oh,  my  God, 
my  blood  do  creem  when  I  think  on't!" 

The  man  stopped  and  his  brother  took  up  the 
story. 

"  'Twas  arterwards,  when  us  had  weathered 
the  worst  an'  was  tryin'  to  fetch  home,  Michael 
failed  forward  on's  faace  arter  the  bwoy  was 
drownded;  an'  us  had  to  do  all  for  the  bwoat 
wi'out  en.  But  he  corned  to  bimebye  an'  didn't 
take  on  much,  awnly  kept  so  dumb  as  a  adder. 
Not  a  word  did  er  say  till  marnin'  light;  then  a 
'orrible  thing  fell  'pon  en.  You  knaw  that  yal- 
ler  dog  as  sails  wi'  us  most  times?  He  turned 
'pon  en  sudden  an'  sez:  'Praise  God,  praise  the 
Lard  o'  Hosts,  my  sons,  here's  Tom,  here's  my 
lad  as  us  thot  weer  drownded!'  Then  he  kissed 
that  beast,  an'  it  licked  his  faace,  an'  he  cried — 
that  iron  sawl  cried  like  a  wummon !  Then  he 
thundered  out  as  the  crew  was  to  give  God  the 
praise,  an'  said  the  man  as  vveern't  on's  knees  in 
a  twinklin'  should  be  thrawed  out  the  bwoat  to 
Jonah's  whale.  God's  truth !  I  never  seed  noth- 
in'  so  awful  as  skipper's  eyes  'pon  airth!  Then 
er  calmed  down,  an'  the  back  of  en  grawed 
humpetty  an'  his  head  failed  a  bit  forrard  an' 


412  LYING   PROPHETS 

he  sat  strokiiT  of  the  dog.  Arter  that,  when  us 
seed  Newlyn,  it  'peared  to  bring  en  to  his  senses 
a  bit,  an'  he  knawed  Tom  was  drownded.  He 
rambled  in  his  speech  a  while;  then  went  mute 
again,  wi'  a  new  look  in  his  eyes  as  though  he'd 
grawed  so  auld  as  history  in  a  single  night. 
Theer  he  do  stand  bedoled  wi'  all  manner  o' 
airthly  sufferin',  poor  creature.  Him  wi'  all 
his  righteousness  behind  en  tu!  But  the  think- 
in'  paarts  of  en  be  drownded  wheer  his  bwoy 
was,  an'  I  lay  theer  ban't  no  druggister,  nor 
doctor  neither,  as'll  bring  'em  back  to  en." 

"Look at  that  now!"  exclaimed  another  man. 
"See  who's  a  talkin'  to  Tregenza!  If  that  ban't 
terrible  coorious!  'Tis  Billy  Jago,  the  softy!" 

Billy  was  indeed  addressing  Gray  Michael  and 
getting  an  answer  to  his  remarks.  The  laborer's 
brains  might  be  addled,  but  they  still  contained 
sane  patches.  He  had  heard  of  the  fisherman's 
loss  and  now  touched  his  hat  and  expressed  re- 
gret. 

"Ay,  the  young  be  snatched,  same  as  a  build- 
in'  craw  will  pick  sprigs  o'  green  wood  for  her 
nest  an'  leave  the  dead  twig  to  rot.  Here  I  be, 
rotten  an'  coffin-ripe  any  time  this  two  year,  yet 
I'm  passed  awver  for  that  braave  young  youth. 
An'  how  is  it  wi'  you,  Mr.  Tregenza?  I  s'pose 
the  Lard  do  look  to  His  awn  in  such  a  pass?" 

Gray  Michael  regarded  the  speaker  a  moment 
and' then  made  answer. 

"I  be  that  sleepy,  my  son,  an*  hungry  wi'  it. 
Iss  fay,  I  could  eat  a  bloody  raw  dog-fish  an' 
think  it  no  sin.  See  to  this,  but  doan't  say 


LYING   PROPHETS  413 

nothin'  'bout  it.  The  bwoat  went  down  wi'  all 
hands,  but  us  flinged  a  bottle  to  Bucca  for  en  to 
wash  ashore  wi'  the  news.  But  it  never  corned, 
for  why?  'Cause  that  damnation  devil  bringed 
the  bottle  'gainst  granite  rocks,  an'  the  message 
was  washed  away  for  mermaids  to  read  an'  laugh 
at;  an'  the  grass-green  splinters  o'  glass  as  held 
the  last  cry  o'  drownin'  men — why,  lil  childern 
plays  wi'  'em  now  'pon  the  sand.  'Sing  to  the 
Lard,  ye  that  gaw  down  to  the  sea.'  An'  I'll 
sing — trust  me  for  that,  but  I  must  eat  fust.  I 
speaks  to  you,  Billy,  'cause  you  be  wan  o'  God's 
chosen  fools." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  pressed  his  hand  over 
his  forehead,  said  something  about  breaking 
the  news  to  his  wife,  and  then  walked  slowly 
down  the  quay.  The  manne^  of  his  locomotion 
had  wholly  changed,  and  he  moved  like  one 
whose  life  was  a  failure. 

Meantime  Jago,  full  of  the  great  discovery, 
hastened  to  the  Pritchards  and  other  men  who 
were  now  following  Gray  Michael  at  a  distance. 
Them  he  told  that  the  fisherman  had  taken  leave 
of  his  senses,  that  he  had  actually  called  Billy 
himself  one  of  God's  chosen  fools. 

Several  more  boats  had  come  in,  and  as  it  was 
certainly  known  that  some  had  taken  refuge  at 
Scilly,  those  vitally  interested  in  the  few  re- 
maining vessels  withdrew  from  the  quay  com- 
forting each  other  and  putting  a  hopeful  face  on 
the  position.  Gray  Michael  followed  his  wife 
home.  As  yet  she  had  not  learned  of  his  state; 
but,  although  his  conduct  on  returning  was  some- 


414  LYING   PROPHETS 

what  singular,  no  word  which  fell  now  from  him 
spoke  clearly  of  a  disordered  mind.  He  clamored 
first  for  food,  and,  while  he  ate,  gave  a  clear  if 
callous  account  of  his  son's  death  and  the  lug- 
ger's danger.  Having  eaten,  he  went  to  his  bed- 
room, dragged  off  his  boots,  flung  himself  down 
and  was  soon  sleeping  heavily ;  while  Thomasin, 
marveling  at  his  stolidity  and  resenting  it  not  a 
little,  gave  way  to  utter  grief.  During  an  inter- 
val between  storms  of  tears  the  woman  put  on 
a  black  gown,  then  went  to  her  work.  The  day 
had  now  advanced.  On  seeing  her  again  down- 
stairs, two  or  three  friends,  including  the  Pritch- 
ards,  entered  the  house  and  asked  anxiously  after 
Michael,  without,  however,  stating  the  nature 
of  their  fears.  She  answered  querulously  that 
the  man  was  asleep  and  showed  no  more  sorrow 
than  a  brute  beast.  She  was  very  red-eyed  and 
bedraggled.  Every  utterance  was  an  excuse  for 
a  fresh  outburst  of  weeping,  her  breast  heaved, 
her  hands  moved  spasmodically,  her  nerves  were 
at  extreme  tension  and  she  could  not  stay  long 
in  one  place.  Seeing  that  she  was  nearly  light- 
headed with  much  grief,  and  hoping  that  her 
husband's  disorder  would  vanish  after  his  slum- 
ber was  ended,  her  friends  forbore  to  hint  at  what 
had  happened  to  him.  They  comforted  her  to 
the  best  of  their  power;  then,  knowing  that  long 
hours  of  bitter  sorrow  must  surely  pass  over  the 
mother's  head  before  such  grief  could  grow  less, 
departed  one  by  one,  leaving  her  at  last  alone. 
She  moved  restlessly  about  from  room  to  room, 
carrying  in  one  hand  a  photograph  of  Tom,  in 


LYING   PROPHETS  415 

the  other  a  handkerchief.  Now  and  then  she 
sat  down,  looked  at  the  picture  and  wept  anew. 
She  tried  to  eat  some  supper  presently  but  could 
not.  It  is  seldom  a  sudden  loss  strikes  home  so 
speedily  as  had  her  tribulation  sunk  into  Thom- 
asin  Tregenza's  soul.  She  drank  some  brandy 
and  water  which  a  friend  had  poured  out  for  her 
and  left  standing  on  the  mantel-shelf.  Then  she 
went  up  to  bed — a  stricken  ruin  of  the  woman 
who  had  risen  from  it  in  the  morning.  Her  hus- 
band still  slept,  and  Thomasin,  her  grief  being 
of  a  nature  which  required  spectators  for  its  full- 
est and  most  soothing  expression,  felt  irritated 
alike  with  him  and  with  those  friends  who  had 
all  departed,  and,  from  the  best  motives,  left  her 
thus.  She  flung  herself  into  bed  and  anger  ob- 
scured her  misery — anger  with  her  husband. 
His  heavy  breathing  worked  her  to  a  frenzy  at 
last,  and  she  sat  up,  took  him  by  the  shoulder 
and  tried  to  shake  him. 

"Wake  up,  for  God's  sake,  an'  speak  to  me, 
caan't  'e?  You  eat  an'  drink  an'  sleep  like  a 
gert  hog — you  new-come  from  your  awnly  son's 
drownin' !  Oh,  Christ,  caan't  'e  think  o'  me,  as 
have  lived  a  hunderd  cruel  years  since  you  went 
to  sleep?  Ain't  you  got  a  word  for  me?  An* 
you,  as  had  your  sawl  centered  'pon  en — how 
comes  it  you  can — " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  for  he  lay  motionless 
and  made  no  sort  of  response  to  her  shrill  com- 
plaining. She  had  yet  to  learn  the  cause;  she 
had  yet  to  know  that  Michael  had  drifted  be- 
yond the  reach  of  all  further  mental  suffering 


416  LYING    PROPHETS 

whatsoever.  No  religious  anxieties,  no  mun- 
dane trials,  none  of  the  million  lesser  carking 
troubles  that  fret  the  sane  brain  and  stamp  care 
on  the  face  of  conscious  intelligence  would  plague 
him  more.  Henceforth  he  was  dead  to  the 
changes  and  chances  of  human  life. 

At  midnight  there  came  the  awful  waking. 
Thomasin  slept  at  last  and  slumbered  dream- 
tossed  in  a  shadow-world  of  fantastic  troubles. 
Then  a  sound  roused  her — the  sound  of  a  voice 
speaking  loudly,  breaking  off  to  laugh,  and 
speaking  again.  The  voice  she  knew,  but  the 
laugh  she  had  never  heard.  She  started  up  and 
listened.  It  was  her  husband  who  had  wakened 
her. 

"How  do  it  go  then?  Lard!  my  memory  be 
like  a  fishin'  net,  as  holds  the  gert  things  an' 
lets  the  little  'uns  creep  through.  'Twas  a 
braave  song  as  faither  singed,  though  maybe 
for  God  fearers  it  ban't  a  likely  song." 

Then  the  bed  trembled  and  the  man  reared  up 
violently  and  roared  out  an  order  in  such  words 
as  he  had  never  used  till  then. 

"Port!  Port  your  God-damned  helm  if  you 
don't  want  'em  to  sink  us." 

Thomasin,  of  whose  presence  her  husband  ap- 
peared unconscious,  crept  trembling  from  the 
bed.  Then  his  voice  changed  and  he  whispered : 

"Port,  my  son,  'cause  of  that  'pon  the  waters. 
Caan't  'e  see — they  bubbles  a  glinimerin'  on  the 
fojuny  That's  the  hist  life  of  my  li I  Tom;  an' 
the  foam  wreath's  put  theer  by  God's  awn  right 
hand.  He'm  saved,  if  't wasn't  that  down  at 


LYING   PROPHETS  417 

the  bottom  o'  the  sea  a  man  be  twenty  fathom 
nearer  hell  than  them  as  lies  in  graaves  ashore. 
But  let  en  wait  for  the  last  trump  as'll  rip  the 
deep  oceans.  An'  the  feesh — damn  'em — if  I 
thot  they'd  nose  Tom,  by  God  I'd  catch  every 
feesh  as  ever  swum.  But  shall  feesh  be  'lowed 
to  eat  what's  had  a  everlasting  sawl  in  it?  God 
forbid.  He'm  theer,  I  doubt,  wi'  seaweed  round 
en  an'  sea-maids  a  cryin'  awver  his  lil  white 
faace  an'  keepin'  the  crabs  away.  Hell  take 
crabs — they'd  a  ate  Christ  'isself  if  so  be  He'd 
failed  in  the  water.  Pearls — pearls — pearls  is 
on  Tom,  an'  the  sea  creatures  gives  what  they 
can,  'cause  they  knaw  as  he'd  a  grawed  to  be 
a  man  an'  theer  master.  God  bless  'em,  they 
gives  the  best  they  can,  'cause  they  knawed 
how  us  loved  en.  ' The  a wnly  son  o'  his  mother. ' 
Well,  well,  sleep's  better'n  medicine;  but  no 
sleepin'  this  weather  if  us  wants  to  make  home 
again.  Steady!  'Tis  freshenin' fast!" 

He  was  busy  about  some  matter  and  she  heard 
him  breathing  in  the  darkness  and  stirring  him- 
self. Thomasin,  her  heart  near  standing  still 
before  this  awful  discovery,  hesitated  between 
stopping  and  flying  from  the  room  before  he 
should  discover  her.  But  she  felt  no  fear  of  the 
man  himself,  and  bracing  her  nerves,  struck  a 
light.  It  showed  Gray  Michael  sitting  up  and 
evidently  under  the  impression  he  was  at  sea. 
He  grasped  the  bed-head  as  a  tiller  and  peered 
anxiously  ahead. 

"Theer's  light  shawin'  forrard!"  he  cried. 
Then  he  laughed,  and  Thomasin  saw  his  face 


418  LYING   PROPHETS 

was  but  the  caricature  of  what  it  had  been,  with 
all  the  iron  lines  blotted  out  and  a  strange,  feeble 
expression  about  eyes  and  mouth.  He  nodded 
his  head,  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  from  time  to 
time,  and  presently  began  to  sing. 

It  was  the  old  rhyme  he  had  been  trying  to 
recollect,  and  it  now  came,  tossed  uppermost  in 
the  mind-quake  which  had  shattered  his  intel- 
lect, buried  matters  of  moment,  and  flung  to 
the  surface  long  hidden  events  and  words  of 
his  youth. 

"  'Bucca's  a  churnin'  the  waves  of  the  sea, 
Bucca's  a  darkenin'  the  sky  wi'  his  frown, 

His  voice  is  the  roll  o'  the  thunder. 
The  lightnin'  do  shaw  us  the  land  on  our  lee, 
An'  do  point  to  the  plaace  wheer  our  bodies 

shall  drown 
When  the  bwoat  gaws  down  from  under.' 

"Ha,  ha,  ha,  missis!  So  you'm  aboard,  eh? 
Well,  'tis  a  funny  picksher  you  makes,  an'  if 
tweern't  murder  an'  hell-fire  to  do  it,  blamed 
if  I  wouldn't  thraw  'e  out  the  ship.  'Thou 
mad'st  him  lower  than  the  angels,'  but  not  much 
lower,  I'm  thinkin'.  'Tis  all  play  an'  no  work 
wi'  them.  They  ought  to  take  a  back  seat  'fore 
the  likes  o'  us.  They  abbun  no  devil  at  theer 
tails  all  times. 

"  *But  I'll  tame  the  wild  devil  afore  very 

long. 

If  I  caan't  wi'  my  feests,  I  will  wi'  my 
tongue!'  " 


LYING   PROPHETS  419 

Thomasin  Tregenza  scuffled  into  her  clothes 
while  he  babbled,  and  now,  bidding  him  sleep  in 
a  shaking  voice,  putting  out  the  candle  and  tak- 
ing the  matches  with  her,  she  fled  into  the  night 
to  roiise  her  neighbors  and  summon  a  doctor. 
She  forgot  all  her  other  troubles  before  this  over- 
whelming tragedy.  And  the  man  driveled  on 
in  the  dark,  concerning  himself  for  the  most 
part  with  those  interests  which  had  occupied 
his  life  when  he  was  a  boy. 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

THE  DESTINATION  OF  JOAN 

MARY  CHIRGWIN  did  not  return  to  Newlyn 
after  making  inquiries  at  Penzance.  There  in- 
deed she  learned  one  fact  which  might  prove 
important,  but  the  possibilities  to  be  read  from 
it  were  various.  Joan  had  been  at  the  Penzance 
railway  station,  and  chance  made  Mary  question 
the  identical  porter  who  had  studied  the  time- 
table for  her  cousin. 

"She  was  anxious  'bout  the  Lunnon  trains  an* 
tawld  me  she  was  travelin'  up  to  town  to-mor- 
row," explained  the  man.  "I  weer  'pon  the 
lookout  this  marnin',  but  she  dedn'  come  again." 

"What  time  did  you  see  her  last  night?" 

"  'Bout  nine  or  earlier.  I  mind  the  time 
'cause  the  storm  burst  not  so  very  long  arter, 
an*  I  wondered  if  the  gal  had  got  to  her  home." 


420  LYING    PROPHETS 

"No,  she  didn't.  Might  she  have  gone  by  any 
other  train?" 

"She  might,  but  I'm  everywheers,  an'  'tedn* 
likely  as  I  shouldn't  have  seed  her." 

This  much  Mary  heard,  and  then  went  home. 
Her  news  made  Mr.  Chirgwin  very  anxious,  for 
supposing  that  Joan  had  returned  from  Pen- 
zance  on  the  previous  evening,  or  attempted  to 
do  so,  it  was  probable  that  she  had  been  in  the 
lowest  part  of  the  valley,  at  or  near  Buryas 
Bridge,  about  the  time  of  the  flood.  The  waters 
still  ran  high,  but  Uncle  Thomas  sent  out 
search  parties  through  the  afternoon  of  that 
day,  and  himself  plodded  not  a  few  miles  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  coomb. 

Meantime  the  truth  must  be  stated.  On  the 
night  of  the  storm  Joan  had  gone  to  Penzance, 
ascertained  the  first  train  which  she  could  catch 
next  day,  and  then  returned  as  quickly  as  she 
could  toward  Drift.  But  at  Buryas  Bridge  she 
remembered  that  her  uncle  was  in  the  coomb 
with  the  farm  hands,  and  might  be  there  all 
night.  It  was  necessary  that  he  should  know 
her  intentions  and  direct  her  in  several  particu- 
lars. A  farm  vehicle  must  also  be  ordered,  for 
Joan  would  have  to  leave  the  farm  at  a  very 
early  hour.  Strung  to  a  tension  of  nerves  above 
all  power  of  fatigue,  in  a  whirl  of  excitement 
and  wholly  heedless  of  the  mysterious  nocturnal 
conditions  around  her,  Joan  di-termined  to  seek 
Unde  Thomas  directly,  and  with  tliat  intx-ntion, 
instead  of  climbing  the  hill  to  Drift  ami  so  plac- 
ing herself  in  a  position  of  safety,  passed  the 


LYING   PROPHETS  421 

smithy  and  cots  which  lie  by  Buryas  Bridge  and 
prepared  to  ascend  the  coomb  in  this  fashion  and 
so  reach  her  friends  the  quicker.  She  knew  her 
road  blindfold,  but  was  quite  ignorant  of  the 
altered  character  of  the  stream.  Joan  had  not, 
however,  traveled  above  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
through  the  orchard  lands  when  she  began  to 
realize  the  difficulties.  Once  well  out  of  the 
orchards,  she  believed  that  the  meadows  would 
offer  an  easier  path,  and  thus,  buried  in  her  own 
thoughts,  proceeded  with  many  stumblings  and 
splashings  over  the  wet  grasses  and  earth, 
under  a  darkness  that  made  progress  very  slow 
despite  her  familiarity  with  the  way. 

Then  it  was  that,  deep  hidden  in  the  night 
and  all  alone,  where  the  stream  ran  into  a  pool 
above  big  bowlders  which  banked  it — at  the  spot, 
indeed,  where  she  had  reigned  over  the  milky 
meadowsweets  seated  on  a  granite  throne — the 
vibrating  thread  of  Joan  Tregenza's  little  life 
was  sharply  severed  and  she  died  with  none  to 
see  or  hear,  in  that  tumult  of  rising  waters 
which  splashed  and  gurgled  and  rose  on  the 
skirts  of  the  coming  storm.  A  pathway  ran 
here  at  the  edge  of  the  river,  and  the  girl 
stepped  upon  it  to  find  the  swollen  current  sud- 
denly up  to  her  knees.  Bewildered  she  turned, 
slipped,  turned  again,  and  then,  under  the  im- 
pression that  she  faced  toward  the  meadow- 
bank,  put  up  her  hands  to  grapple  safety,  set 
her  foot  forward  and,  in  a  moment,  was  drown- 
ing. Distant  not  half  a  mile,  laboring  like 
giants  to  save  a  thing  far  less  precious  than  this 


422  LYING   PROPHETS 

life,  toiled  Uncle  Thomas  and  his  men.  Had  si- 
lence prevailed  among  thorn  the  single  cry  which 
echoed  up  the  valley  might  well  have  reached 
their  ears;  but  all  were  laboring  amain,  and 
Joan  was  at  that  moment  the  last  thought  in 
the  minds  of  any  among  them. 

So  she  died;  for  the  gathering  waters  soon 
beat  out  her  life  and  silenced  her  feeble  struggle 
to  save  it.  A  short  agony  ended  the  nine 
months  of  experience  through  which  Joan's  life 
has  been  followed ;  her  fires  were  quenched,  and 
that  most  roughly;  her  fears,  hopes,  sorrows, 
joys  were  all  swept  away;  and  Nature  stood 
defeated  by  herself,  to  see  a  young  life  strangled 
on  the  threshold  of  motherhood,  and  an  infant 
being  drowned  so  near  to  birth  that  its  small 
heart  had  already  begun  to  beat. 

Two  men,  tramping  through  the  desolation 
of  the  ruined  valley  ai  Uncle  Chirgwin's  com- 
mand, discovered  Joan's  body.  The  elder  was 
Amos  Bartlett,  and  he  fell  back  a  step  at  the 
spectacle  with  a  sorrowful  oath  on  his  lip; 
the  younger  searcher  turned  white  and  showed 
fear.  The  dead  girl  lay  on  her  back,  so  left  by 
the  water.  Her  dress  had  been  caught  between 
two  great  bowlders  near  the  pool  of  her  drown- 
ing and  the  flood  had  thus  caused  her  no  injury. 

"God's  goodness!  how  corned  she  here!"  cried 
out  Bartlett.  "Oh,  but  this'll  be  black  news— 
black  news;  an*  her  brother  drowned  at  sea  like- 
wise! Theer's  a  hidden  meanin'  in  it,  I  lay,  if 
us  awnly  knawed." 


LYING   PROPHETS  423 

The  lad  who  accompanied  Bartlett  was  shak- 
ing, and  did  not  dare  to  look  at  the  still  figure 
which  lay  so  stiff  and  straight  at  their  feet. 
Amos  therefore  bid  him  use  his  legs,  hasten  to 
the  farm,  break  the  news,  and  dispatch  a  couple 
of  men  to  the  coomb. 

"I  can  pull  up  a  hurdle  an'  wattle  it  with 
withys  meantime,"  he  said;  "for  'tis  allus  well 
to  have  work  for  the  hand  in  such  a  pass  as 
this.  Ban't  no  good  for  me  to  sit  an'  look  at 
her,  poor  fond  wummon." 

He  busied  himself  with  the  hurdle  accordingly, 
and  when  two  of  the  hands  presently  came  down 
from  Drift  they  found  their  burden  ready  for 
them. 

The  old,  silent  man  called  Gaffer  Polglaze 
found  sufficient  excitement  in  the  tragedy  to 
loosen  a  tongue  which  seldom  wagged.  He 
spat  on  his  hands  and  rubbed  them  together 
before  seizing  his  end  of  the  hurdle.  Then 
he  spoke: 

"My  stars!  to  see  maaster  when  he  heard! 
He  rolled  all  about  as  if  he  was  drunk.  An' 
yet  'tis  the  bestest  thing  as  could  fall  'pon  the 
gal.  'Er  was  looMn'  for  the  cheel  in  a  month 
.or  so,  they  do  say.  Poor  sawl — so  cold  as  a 
quilkin*  now,  and  the  unborn  baaby  tu." 

Then  Mr.  Bartlett  answered : 

"The  unhappy  creature  was  fine  an'  emperent 
to  me  'bout  a  matter  o'  drownin'  chets  in  the 

*  Quilkin— A  frog. 


424  LYING   PROPHETS 

spring.  Yot  here  she'm  drowned  herself  sure 
'nough.  Well,  well,  God's  will  be  done." 

"  'Tis  coorious,  to  be  sure,  how  bazzomy*  a 
corpse  do  get  'bout  the  faace  arter  a  water 
death,"  said  the  first  speaker,  regarding  the 
dead  with  frank  interest. 

"Her  eyes  do  make  me  wimbly-wambly  in  the 
stomach,"  declared  the  second  laborer;  "when 
you've  done  talking  Gaffer  Polglaze,  us'll  go 
up-long,  an'  the  sooner  the  better." 

"Butivul  eyes,  tu,  they  was — wance.  Sky- 
color  an'  no  less.  What  I'm  wonderin'  is  as  to 
however  she  corned  here  'tall." 

"Piskey-led,  I'll  warrant  'e,"  said  the  ancient. 

"Nay,  man-led,  which  is  worse.  You  mind 
that  printed  envelope  us  found  in  the  kitchen. 
'Twas  some  dark  doin'  of  that  anointed  vellun 
as  brot  her  in  trouble.  Ay,  an'  if  I  could  do 
en  a  graave  hurt  I  would,  Methodist  or  no 
Methodist." 

"He'm  away,"  answered  Bartlett.  "  'Tedn' 
no  call  for  you  nor  yet  me  to  meddle  wi'  the 
devil's  awn  business.  The  man'll  roast  for't 
when  his  time  do  come.  You'd  best  to  take 
your  coats  off  an'  cover  this  poor  clay,  lest  the 
wummen  should  catch  a  sight  an*  go  soundin'." 

They  did  as  he  bid  them,  and  Mr.  Bartlett 
laid  his  own  coat  upon  the  body  likewise.  Then 
slowly  up  the  hill  they  passed,  and  rested  now 
and  again  above  the  steep  places. 

"A  wisht  home-comin'  as  ever  a  body  heard 


*  Bazzomy— Blua  or 


LYING   PROPHETS  425 

tell  on,"  commented  Gaffer  Polglaze;  "an'  yet 
the  Lard's  good  pleasure's  allus  right  if  you 
lives  long  enough  to  look  back  an'  see  how 
things  was  from  His  bird's-eye  view  of  'em.  A 
tidy  skuat*  o'  money  tu  they  tells  me.  Who  be 
gwaine  to  come  by  that?" 

"Her  give  it  under  hand  an'  seal  to  her 
brother." 

"Theer's  another  'mazin'  thing  for  'e!  Him 
drownded  in  salt  an'  her  in  fraish!  "We  lives  in 
coorious  times  to  be  sure,  an'  theer's  more  in 
such  happenings  than  meets  the  eye. ' ' 

"Bear  yourself  more  sorrow-stricken,  Gaffer. 
Us  be  in  sight  of  the  house." 

Mary  Chirgwin  met  the  mournful  train,  di- 
rected them  to  bring  the  body  of  Joan  into  the 
parlor  where  a  place  was  prepared  for  it,  and 
then  turned  to  Bartlett.  She  was  trembling 
and  very  pale  for  one  of  her  complexion,  but 
the  woman's  self-command  had  not  left  her. 

"The  auld  man's  like  wan  daft,"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "He  must  be  doin',  so  he  rushed 
away  to  Newlyn  to  tell  'em  theer.  He  ban't 
himself  'tall.  You'd  best  to  go  arter  en  now 
this  minute.  An'  theer's  things  to  be  done  in 
Penzance — the  doctor  an'  the  crowaer  an' — an' 
the  coffin-maker.  Do  what  you  can  to  take 
trouble  off  the  auld  man." 

"Get  me  my  coat  an'  I'll  go  straight  'way. 
'Tis  thrawed  awver  the  poor  faace  of  her." 

Two  minutes  later  Mr.  Bartlett  followed  his 

*  Skuat— Windfall,  legacy. 


426  LYING    PROPHETS 

master,  but  Uncle  Chi  rg  win  had  taken  a  con- 
siderable start  of  him.  The  old  man  was  ter- 
ribly shocked  to  hear  the  news,  for  he  had  clung 
to  a  theory  that  Joan  was  long  since  in  London. 
Dread  and  fear  came  over  him.  The  thought  of 
facing  this  particular  corpse  was  more  than  he 
could  contemplate  with  self-control.  A  great 
nervous  terror  mingled  with  his  grief.  He 
wished  to  avoid  the  return  from  the  valley,  and 
the  first  excuse  for  so  doing  which  came  to  his 
mind  he  hurriedly  acted  upon.  He  declared  it 
essential  that  the  Tregenzas  should  be  told  in- 
stantly, and  hastened  away  before  Mary  could 
argue  with  him.  Only  that  morning  they  had 
heard  of  Gray  Michael's  condition,  but  Uncle 
Chirgwin  forgot  it  when  the  blasting  news  of 
his  niece's  death  fell  upon  him.  He  hurried 
snuffling  and  weeping  along  as  fast  as  his  legs 
would  bear  him,  and  not  until  he  stood  at  their 
cottage  door  did  he  recollect  the  calamities  which 
had  overtaken  the  fisherman  and  those  of  his 
household. 

Uncle  Chirgwin  began  to  speak  hastily  the 
moment  Mrs.  Tregenza  opened  the  door.  He 
choked  and  gurgled  over  his  news. 

"She'm  dead — Joan.  They've  found  her  in 
the  brook  as  the  waters  went  down.  Drownded 
theer — the  awnly  sunshine  as  ever  smiled  at 
Drift.  Oh,  my  good  God ! — 'tis  a  miz-maze  to 
drive  us  all  out  of  our  senses.  An'  you,  mother 
— my  dear,  dear  sawl,  my  heart  bleeds  for  'e." 

"I  caan't  cry  for  her — my  tears  be  dried  at 
the  roots  o'  my  eyes.  I  be  down-danted  to  the 


LYING   PROPHETS  427  < 

edge  o'  my  awn  graave.  If  my  man  wasn't 
gone  daft  hisself,  I  reckon  I  should  a  gone. 
Come  in— come  in.  Joan  an'  Tom  dead  in  a 
night,  an'  the  faither  of  'em  worse  than  dead. 
I  shall  knaw  it  is  so  bimebye.  'Tis  awnly  vain 
words  yet.  Iss,  you'd  best  to  see  en  now  you'm 
here.  He  may  knaw  'e  or  he  may  not.  He  sits 
craakin'  beside  the  fire,  full  o*  wild,  mad,  awful 
words.  Doctor  sez  theer  ban't  no  bettering  of 
it.  But  he  may  live  years  an'  years,  though 
'tedn'  likely.  Tell  en  as  Joan's  dead.  Theer 
edn'  no  call  to  be  afeared.  He's  grawed  quite 
calm — a  poor  droolin'  gaby." 

Uncle  Chirgwin  approached  Gray  Michael  and 
the  fisherman  held  out  his  hand  and  smiled. 

"  'Tis  farmer  Chirgwin,  *o  be  sure.  An'  how 
is  it  with  'e,  uncle?" 

"Bad,  bad,  Tregenza.  Your  HI  darter,  your 
Joan,  be  dead — drownded  in  the  flood,  poor  sweet 
lamb." 

"You'm  wrong,  my  son.  Joan's  bin  dead 
these  years  'pon  years.  She  was  damned  afore 
'er  mother  conceived  her.  Hell-meat  in  the 
womb.  But  the  'Lard  is  King,'  you  mind. 
Joan — iss  fay,  her  mother  was  a  Hittite — a 
lioness  o'  the  Hittites,  an'  the  mother's  sins  be 
visited  'pon  the  childern,  'cordin'  to  the  dark 
ways  o'  the  livin'  God." 

"Doan't  'e  say  it,  Michael!  She  died  lovin' 
Christ.  Be  sure  o'  that." 

The  other  laughed  loudly,  and  burst  into 
mindless  profanity  and  obscenity.  So  the  pur- 
est liver  and  most  cleanly  thinker  has  often 


428  LYING    PROPHETS 

cursed  and  uttered  horrible  imprecations  and 
profanations  under  the  knife,  being  chloroformed 
and  unconscious  the  while.  Uncle  Chirgwin 
gazed  and  listened  open-mouthed.  This  spec- 
tacle of  a  shattered  intellect  came  upon  him  as 
an  absolutely  new  manifestation.  Any  novel 
experience  is  rare  when  a  man  has  passed  the 
age  of  seventy,  and  the  farmer  was  profoundly 
agitated.  Then  a  solemn  fit  fell  upon  Gray 
Michael,  and  as  his  visitor  rose  to  depart  he 
quoted  from  words  long  familiar  to  the  speaker 
— weird  utterances,  and  doubly  weird  from  a 
madman's  mouth  in  Uncle  Cbirgwin's  opinion. 
Out  of  the  wreck  and  ruin  of  quite  youthful 
memories,  Michael's  maimed  mind  had  now 
passed  to  these  later,  strenuous  days  of  his  early 
religious  existence,  when  he  fought  for  his  soul, 
and  lived  with  the  Bible  in  his  hand. 

"Hark  to  me,  will  'e?  Hark  to  the  word  o' 
God  echoed  by  His  worm.  'He  that  heareth  let 
en  hear,  an'  he  that  forbeareth  let  en  forbear, 
for  they  are  a  rebellious  house.'  An'  what  shall 
us  do  then?  Theer  was  a  man  as  builded  a 
heydge  around  a  guckoo,  thinkin',  poor  fool,  to 
catch  the  bird ;  but  her  flew  off.  That  edn'  the 
Lard's  way.  'Make  a  chain,  for  the  land  is  full 
o'  bloody  crimes  an'  the  city  is  full  o'  violence!' 
'An'  all  that  handle  the  oar,  the  mariners,  an' 
all  the  pilots  o'  the  sea,  shall  cume  down  from 
theer  ships,'  an*  me  amongst  the  rest.  That's 
why  I  be  here  now,  wi'  bitterness  o'  heart  an' 
bitter  wailin'  for  my  dead  bwoy.  'As  for  theer 
rings,  they  was  (were)  so  high  that  they  was 


LYING   PROPHETS  429 

(were)  dreadful;  an*  theer  rings  were  full  of 
eyes  round  about.'  Huntin'  damned  sawls,  my 
son — a  braave  sight  for  godly  folks.  That's 
why  the  rings  of  'em  be  so  full  of  eyes !  They 
need  be.  An'  theer  wings  whistle  like  a  hawk 
arter  a  pigeon.  'Because  o'  the  mountain  of 
Zion,  which  is  desolate,  the  foxes  walk  upon 
it.'  " 

He  relapsed  into  absolute  silence  and  sat 
with  his  eyes  on  the  fire.  Sometimes  he  shook, 
sometimes  he  nodded  his  head ;  now  he  frowned, 
then  grinned  vacuously  at  the  current  of  his 
thoughts. 

Mr.  Chirgwin  took  his  leave  of  Thomasin, 
prayed  that  she  might  be  supported  in  her  tribu- 
lation, and  so  departing  met  Amos  Bartlett  who 
was  standing  outside  the  cottage  awaiting  him. 
The  man  gave  a  forcible  and  blunt  description 
of  his  morning's  work  which  brought  many 
tears  to  Uncle  Chirg win's  eyes;  then,  together, 
they  walked  to  Penzance,  there  to  chronicle  the 
sudden  death  of  Joan  Tregenza  and  arrange  for 
those  necessary  formalities  which  must  precede 
her  burial. 

The  spectacle  of  Tregenza' s  insanity,  which 
to  an  educated  observer  had  perhaps  presented 
features  of  some  scientific  interest  and  appeared 
grotesque  rather  than  tremendous,  fell  upon  the 
ignorant  soul  of  Uncle  Chirgwin  in  a  manner 
far  different.  The  mystery  of  madness,  the 
sublimity  and  horror  of  it,  rise  only  to  tragic 
heights  in  the  untutored  minds  of  such  beholders 
as  the  farmer,  for  no  mere  scientific  manifesta- 


430  LYING   PROPHETS 

tion  of  mental  disease  is  presented  to  their  intelli- 
gence. Instead  they  stand  face  to  face  with  the 
infinitely  more  terrific  apparition  of  God  speak- 
ing direct  through  the  mouth  of  one  among  His 
chosen  insane.  In  their  estimation  a  madman's 
utterance  is  pregnant,  oracular,  a  subject  worthy 
of  most  grave  consideration  and  appraisement. 
And  after  Gray  Michael's  mental  downfall 
many  humble  folks,  incited  by  the  remarkable 
religious  fame  of  his  past  life,  begged  permis- 
sion to  approach  within  sound  of  his  voice  at 
those  moments  when  the  desire  for  utterance 
was  upon  him.  This,  indeed,  came  to  be  a 
privilege  not  a  little  sought  after. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

AT    SANCREED 

MARY  CHIRGWIN  would  allow  none  but  her- 
self to  perform  the  last  offices  of  kindness  for 
her  cousin.  In  poor  Joan's  pocket  she  found  a 
wet,  crumpled  mass  of  paper  which  might  have 
been  dried  and  read  without  difficulty,  but  Mary 
lacked  curiosity  to  approach  the  matter.  She 
debated  with  herself  as  to  how  her  duty  stood  in 
connection  with  the  communication  from  John 
Barren,  then  took  it  in  her  hand,  not  without 
a  sensation  of  much  loathing,  and  burned  it 
to  ashes.  The  ;ict  pnxlucod  considerable  and 
unforeseen  consequences.  Her  own  mundane 


LYING   PROPHETS  431 

happiness  was  wholly  dependent  on  the  burn- 
ing of  the  letter,  and  a  man's  life  likewise  hung 
upon  the  incident ;  but  these  results  of  her  con- 
duct were  only  brought  to  the  woman's  under- 
standing in  the  light  of  subsequent  events. 
Then,  and  with  just  if  superficial  cause,  she 
directly  read  God's  hand  in  the  circumstance. 
Another  discovery  saddened  Mary  far  more  than 
that  of  the  letter,  which  had  caused  her  little 
surprise.  Around  Joan's  white  body  was  a 
strange  amulet — the  glen-ader.  She  had  sewed 
it  upon  flannel,  then  fastened  the  ends  about 
herself,  and  so  worn  the  snake  skin  at  all  seasons 
since  the  finding  of  it.  The  fact  was  nothing, 
the  condition  of  mind  which  it  indicated  brought 
great  grief  to  the  discoverer.  She  judged  that 
Joan  was  little  better  than  heathen  after  all; 
she  greatly  feared  that  the  girl  had  perished 
but  half-believing.  Any  soul  which  could  thus 
cherish  the  slough  of  a  serpent  must  most 
surely  have  been  wandering  afar  out  of  the 
road  of  faith.  The  all-embracing  credulity  of 
Joan  was,  in  fact,  a  phenomenon  beyond  Mary-'s 
power  to  estimate  or  translate ;  and  her  present 
discovery,  therefore,  caused  her  both  pain  and 
consternation.  But  as  she  had  burned  the  let- 
ter, so  she  likewise  destroyed  all  evidence  of  her 
cousin's  superstitious  weakness;  and  of  neither 
one  nor  the  other  did  she  speak  when  the  farmer 
returned  to  his  home. 

He  was  sadly  crushed  and  broken;  and  the 
spectacle  of  his  loved  one,  lying  silent  and  peace- 
ful, brought  with  it  deep  grief  for  him.  Not 


432  LYING    PROPHETS 

until  he  had  seen  her  and  held  her  dead  hand 
did  he  begin  slowly  to  realize  the  truth. 

"Her  mother  do  lie  at  Paul  'cordin'  to  the  wish 
o'  Michael,  but  I  seem  as  Joan  had  best  be  laid 
'long  wi'  the  Chirgwins  at  Sancreed.  If  you'll 
awnly  give  your  mind  to  the  matter  an'  settle  it, 
I'll  go  this  evenin'  to  wan  plaace  or  t'other  an' 
see  the  diggers,"  said  Mary. 

"Sancreed  for  sartain.  Her'll  be  nearer  to  us, 
an'  us  can  see  wheer  she  be  restin'  'pon  Sundays. 
Sancreed's  best  an'  fittest,  for  she  was  Chirgwin 
all.  They  be  comin'  to  sit  'pon  her  to-morrow 
marnin'.  Please  God  He'll  hold  me  up  agin  it, 
but  I  feels  as  if  I'd  welcome  death  to  be  'long- 
side  my  lil  Joan  again." 

He  wept  an  old  man's  scanty  tears,  and  Mary 
comforted  him,  while  she  smothered  her  own 
real  sorrows  entirely  before  his.  She  spoke 
coldly  and  practically;  she  fetched  him  a  stiff 
dose  of  spirits  and  a  mutton-chop  freshly  cooked. 
These  things  she  made  him  drink  and  eat,  and 
she  spoke  to  the  old  man  while  he  did  so,  lard- 
ing the  discussion  of  necessary  details  with  ex- 
pressions of  hope  for  the  dead. 

"Be  strong,  an'  faace  it,  uncle.  God  kuaws 
best.  I  lay  the  poor  lovey  was  took  from  gert 
evil  to  come.  You  knaw  so  well  as  me.  You 
can  guess  wheer  her'd  l>e  now  if  livin'.  She'm 
in  a  better  home  than  that.  I  s'pose  the  bury- 
in'  might  be  two  days  off,  or  three.  I'll  step 
nwver  to  Sancroed  bimebye,  an'  if  the  under- 
taker come,  Mrs.  Bartlett  can  l>e  with  him 
when  he  do  hia  work." 


LYING   PROPHETS  433 

"Iss,  an'  I've  said  as  'tis  to  be  oak— braave, 
bold,  seasoned  oak,  an'  polished,  wi'  silvered 
handles  to  it.  Her  should  lie  in  gawld,  my  awn 
Joan,  if  I  could  bring  it  about." 

"Ellum  be  more— "  began  Mary,  then  held 
her  tongue  upon  that  detail  and  approached  an- 
other. 

"Shall  us  ask  Mrs.  Tregenza?  Sorrer  be  grip- 
ping her  heart  just  now,  but  a  buryin's  a  sooth- 
in'  circumstance  to  such  as  she.  An'  she  could 
carry  her  son  in  the  mind.  Poor  young  Tom 
won't  get  no  good  words  said  above  his  dust; 
us  can  awnly  think  'em  for  him." 

"She  might  like  to  come  if  her  could  get  some 
o'  the  neighbors  to  bide  along  wi'  Michael. 
He'm  daft  for  all  time,  but  'tis  said  as  he'll 
be  childlike  wi'  it,  thank  God.  I  let  en  knaw 
'bout  the  lass  an'  he  rolled  his  head  an'  dropped 
his  jaw,  like  to  a  feesh,  an'  said  as  'tweern't  no 
news  to  en,  Which  maybe  it  weern't,  for  the 
Lard's  got  His  awn  way  wi'  the  idiot.  The 
sayin's  of  en!  Like  as  not  Thomasin'll  be  here 
if  'tis  awnly  to  get  the  rids  of  Michael  for  a 
while." 

The  coroner's  inquest  found  that  Joan  Tre- 
genza had  come  by  her  death  from  drowning 
upon  the  night  of  the  flood;  the  tragedy  filled 
an  obscure  paragraph  or  two  in  local  journals; 
Joan's  funeral  was  fixed  for  two  days  later,  and 
Mrs.  Tregenza  decided  that  she  would  attend  it. 

A.t  a  spot  where  fell  the  shadow  of  the  church 
when  the  sun  sank  far  westerly  on  summer  days, 
they  dug  the  grave  in  Sancreed  churchyard. 


434  LYING    PROPHETS 

Round  about  it  on  slate  slabs  and  upright  stones 
appeared  the  names  of  Chirgwins  not  a  few. 
Her  maternal  grandparents  lay  there,  her  uncle, 
Mary's  father,  and  many  others.  Some  of  the 
graves  dated  back  for  a  hundred  and  more  years. 
On  the  morning  of  the  funeral,  Uncle  Thomas 
himself  tied  scraps  of  crape  around  the  stems  of 
his  tall  geraniums,  according  to  an  ancient  cus- 
tom ;  and  Mrs.  Tregenza  arrived  at  Drift  in  good 
time  to  join  the  few  who  mourned.  Six  men 
bore  J  oan's  oaken  coffin  to  Sancreed,  while  there 
walked  behind  her,  Uncle  Chirgwin,  Mary  and 
Thomasin,  Mr.  Bartlett,  his  wife,  Gaffer  Pol- 
glaze,  and  two  farm  maidens.  A  few  of  the 
Drift  folk  and  half  a  dozen  young  children  came 
in  the  wake  of  the  procession  proper;  and  that 
was  all.  The  mourners  and  their  dead  pro- 
ceeded along  the  high  lanes  to  Sancreed,  and 
conversation  was  general.  Uncle  Chirgwin 
tugged  at  his  black  gloves  and  snuffled,  then 
snuffled  and  tugged  again;  Mary  walked  on 
one  side  of  him;  and  Mrs.  Tregenza,  in  new 
and  heavy  black  bought  for  another,  found  the 
opportunity  convenient  for  the  display  of  varied 
grief,  as  she  marched  along  on  the  farmer's 
right  hand.  Her  condition  indeed  became  hys- 
terical, and  Mary  only  soothed  her  with  diffi- 
culty. So  the  party  crawled  within  sound  of 
the  minute  bell  and  presently  reached  the  church. 
The  undertaker  buzzed  here  and  there  issuing 
din'otions,  an  old  clergyman  met  the  dead  at  the 
lych-gate  and  walked  liefore  her  up  the  aisle; 
while  those  who  had  a  right  to  attend  the  Her- 


LYING   PROPHETS  435 

vice,  clustered  in  the  pews  to  right  and  left  of 
the  trestles.  Upon  them  lay  Joan.  The  words 
of  the  service  sounded  with  mournful  reverbera- 
tions through  the  chill  echoes  of  an  unwarmed 
and  almost  empty  church;  and  then  the  little 
sister,  sleeping  peacefully  enough  after  her  one 
short  year  of  storm,  was  carried  to  the  last  abode 
of  silence.  Then  followed  an  old  man's  voice, 
sounding  strangely  thin  in  the  open  air,  the 
straining  of  cords,  the  sweating  and  hard  breath- 
ing and  shuffling  of  men,  the  grating  of  oak  on 
a  grave-bottom,  the  updrawing  of  the  ropes  that 
had  lowered  the  coffin.  Genuine  grief  accom- 
panied the  obsequies  of  Joan  Tregenza,  and  her 
uncle's  sorrow  touched  even  men  to  visible  grief 
and  sympathy ;  but  there  vv  as  no  heart  to  break 
for  the  heart  which  had  itself  come  so  near  to 
breaking,  there  was  no  mighty  well  spring  of 
love  to  be  choked  with  tears  for  one  who  had 
herself  loved  so  much.  A  feeling,  hidden  in 
some  minds,  expressed  by  others,  latent  in  all, 
pervaded  that  throng;  and  there  was  not  one 
among  those  present,  save  Thomas  Chirgwin, 
but  felt  that  Providence,  harsh  till  now,  had 
dealt  kindly  by  Joan  in  dealing  death  to  her. 

Upon  the  flowerless,  shiny  coffin-lid  a  staring 
plate  of  white  metal  gleamed  up  at  the  world 
above  like  an  eye  and  met  the  gaze  of  the  mourn- 
ers, as  each  in  turn,  with  Mrs.  Tregenza  first, 
peered  down  into  Joan's  grave  before  departing. 
After  which  all  went  away ;  the  children  were 
shut  out  of  the  churchyard ;  the  old  clergyman 
disappeared  to  the  vestry;  a  young  florid  man, 


436  LYING    PROPHETS 

with  pale  hair,  tightened  his  leather  belt,  turned 
up  his  sleeves,  watched  a  grand  pair  of  biceps 
roll  up  as  he  crooked  his  elbows,  then,  taking  a 
spade,  set  to  work  upon  the  wet  mound  he  had 
dug  from  the  earth  the  day  before  to  clear  those 
few  square  feet  of  space  below.  As  he  worked, 
he  whistled,  for  his  occupation  held  no  more  sig- 
nificance to  him  than  an  alternative  employment : 
the  breaking  of  stones  by  the  highway  side.  He 
could  see  the  black  heads  of  the  mourners  bob- 
bing away  upon  the  road  to  Drift,  and  stopped 
to  watch  them  for  a  moment.  But  soon  he  re- 
turned to  his  labor ;  the  earth  rose  foot  by  foot, 
and  the  strong  young  man  stamped  it  down. 
Then  it  bulged  and  overflowed  the  full  hole; 
whereupon  he  patted  and  hammered  it  into  the 
customary  mound  and  slapped  upon  it  sundry 
pieces  of  sodden  turf  with  gaping  gashes  be- 
tween their  edges.  The  surplus  soil  he  removed 
in  a  wheelbarrow,  the  boards  he  also  took  away, 
then  raked  over  the  earth-smeared,  bruised  grass 
about  the  grave  and  so  made  an  end  of  his 
work. 

"Blamed  if  I  ever  filled  wan  quicker'n  that," 
he  thought,  with  some  satisfaction;  "I  reckoned 
the  rain  must  fall  afore  I'd  done,  but  it  do  hold 
off  yet  seemin'ly." 

The  man  departed,  gray  twilight  fell,  and  out 
from  the  gathering  darkness,  like  a  wound  on 
the  hand  of  Time,  that  new-made  grave  and  its 
fringe  of  muddy  grass  stood  forth,  crude  of 
color,  raw,  unsightly  in  the  deepening  mono- 
chrome of  the  gloaming. 


LYING   PROPHETS  437 

At  Drift  the  important  meal  which  follows  a 
funeral  was  enjoyed  with  sober  satisfaction  by 
about  fifteen  persons.  Cold  fowls  and  a  round 
of  cold  beef  formed  the  main  features  of  the  re- 
past ;  Mary  poured  out  tea  for  the  women  at  her 
end  of  the  table,  while  the  men  drank  two  or 
three  bottles  of  grocer's  sherry  among  them. 
The  undertaker  and  his  assistants  followed 
when  the  funeral  assembly  dispersed.  Mrs. 
Tregenza  was  about  to  depart  in  the  fly  spe- 
cially ordered  to  take  her  home  when  a  lawyer, 
who  was  of  the  company,  begged  she  would  stay 
a  little  longer. 

"I  learn  that  you  are  the  deceased's  step- 
mother, madam,  and  as  you  stand  related  to 
the  parties  both  now  unhappily  swept  away  by 
Providence — I  mean  Thomas  Tregenza  and  Joan 
— it  is  sufficiently  clear  that  you  inherit  directly 
the  bequest  left  by  the  poor  girl  to  her  brother. 
I  framed  her  little  will  myself;  failing  her  own 
child,  her  property  went  to  Thomas  Tregenza, 
his  heirs  and  assigns — those  were  the  words. 
The  paper  is  here ;  the  sum  mentioned  lies  at 
interest  of  three  per  cent.  Let  me  know  when 
convenient  what  you  would  wish  to  be  done." 

So  the  pile  of  money,  at  a  cost  terrible  enough, 
had  reached  Mrs.  Tregenza  after  all.  She  had 
been  drinking  brown  sherry  as  well  as  tea,  and 
was  in  a  condition  of  renewed  tears  approaching 
to  maudlin,  when  the  announcement  reached 
her.  It  steadied  the  woman.  Then  the  thought 
that  this  wealth  would  have  been  her  son's  made 
her  weep  again,  until  the  fact  that  it  was  now 


438  LYING    PROPHETS 

her  own  became  grasped  in  her  mind.  There 
is  a  sort  of  people  who  find  money  a  reasonably 
good  support  in  all  human  misfortune,  and  if 
Mrs.  Tregenza  did  not  entirely  belong  to  that 
callous  company,  yet  it  is  certain  that  this  sud- 
den afflux  of  gold  was  more  likely  to  assuage 
her  grief  than  most  things.  She  presently  re- 
tired, all  tears  and  care ;  but  at  intervals,  when 
sorrow  rested  to  regain  its  strength,  the  lawyer's 
information  recurred  and  the  distractions  of  mind 
caused  by  the  contemplation  of  a  future  bright- 
ened by  this  wealth  soothed  Thomasin's  nerves 
to  an  extent  beyond  the  power  of  religion  or  any 
other  force  which  could  possibly  have  been 
brought  to  bear  upon  them.  She  felt  that  her 
own  position  must  henceforth  be  exalted  in  New- 
lyn,  for  the  effects  of  the  combination  of  catas- 
trophes led  to  that  end.  Her  husband  was  the 
sole  care  she  had  left,  and  physicians  foretold  no 
great  length  of  days  for  him.  The  lugger  would 
be  put  up  to  auction,  with  the  drift  nets  and  all 
pertaining  thereto.  The  cottage  was  already 
Tregenza  property.  Thomasin  therefore  looked 
through  the  overwhelming  miser}'  of  the  time, 
counted  her  moneys  and  felt  comforted  without 
knowing  it.  As  for  her  insane  husband,  his 
very  sufferings  magnified  him  into  a  man  of 
importance,  and  she  enjoyed  the  reflected  glory 
of  being  his  keeper.  People  came  from  remote 
villages  to  listen  to  him,  a'nd  it  was  held  a  privi- 
lege among  the  humbler  sort  to  view  the  ruin  of 
Michael  Tregenza  and  hark  to  the  chaotic  rav- 
ings of  a  mind  overthrown. 


LYING  PROPHETS  439 


CHAPTER  TEN 

THE  HOME-COMING  OF  JOE 

A  FORTNIGHT  and  four  days  after  the  funeral 
of  Joan  Tregenza  there  blew  a  southwest  wind 
over  Newlyn,  from  out  a  gray  sky,  dotted  with 
watery  blots  of  darker  gray.  No  added  light 
marked  the  western  horizon  at  sunset,  but  the 
short,  dull  day  simply  fell  headlong  into  night; 
and  with  darkness  came  the  rain. 

About  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  the 
flicker  and  shine  of  many  lamps  in  little  shop- 
windows  brightened  the  tortuous  streets,  a  man 
clad  in  tarpaulins,  and  carrying  a  big  canvas 
bag  on  his  back,  passed  rapidly  through  the 
village.  He  had  come  that  day  from  London 
upon  the  paying  off  of  his  vessel;  and  while  he 
left  his  two  chests  at  the  railway  station,  he 
made  shift  to  bring  his  sea-bag  along  himself; 
and  that  because  he  was  bound  for  the  white 
cottage  on  the  cliff,  and  the  bag  held  many 
precious  foreign  concerns  for  Joan  Tregenza. 
It  had  been  impossible  to  communicate  with  the 
sailor;  and  he  did  not  write  from  London  to  tell 
any  of  his  return,  that  their  pleasure  and  sur- 
prise on  his  appearance  might  be  the  more  com- 
plete. Now  a  greater  shock  than  that  in  his 


440  LYING    PROPHETS 

power  to  give  waited  the  man  himself.  The 
sailor's  parents  lived  at  Mousehole,  but  Michael's 
cottage  lay  upon  the  way,  and  there  he  first  de- 
signed to  appear. 

Joe  Noy  was  a  very  big  man,  loosely  but 
strongly  set  together,  a  Celt  to  the  backbone, 
hard,  narrow  of  mind,  but  possessing  rare  deter- 
mination. His  tanned,  clean-shaven  face  was 
broader  at  the  jaw  than  the  eyes,  and  a  lower- 
ing heaviness  of  aspect,  almost  ape-like,  resulted 
when  his  features  remained  in  repose.  The 
effect,  however,  vanished  when  he  spoke  or 
listened  to  the  speech  of  another.  That  such  a 
man  had  proved  fickle  in  love  was  a  thing  diffi- 
cult to  credit  to  the  mind  familiar  with  his  char- 
acter. Solid,  sober,  simple,  fearing  God  and 
lacking  humor,  the  jilting  of  a  woman  was  an 
offense  of  all  others  least  likely  to  have  been 
associated  with  him.*  Yet  circumstances  and 
some  unsuspected  secrets  of  disposition  had 
brought  about  that  event;  and  now,  as  he  hast- 
ened along,  the  vision  of  the  dark  woman  he 
once  loved  at  Drift  did  not  for  an  instant  cross 
his  thoughts,  for  they  were  full  of  the  fair  girl 
he  meant  to  marry  at  Newlyn.  To  her,  at  least, 
he  had  kept  faithful  enough ;  she  had  been  the 
guiding-star  of  his  life  for  hard  upon  a  year  of 
absence ;  not  one  morning,  not  one  night,  in  fair 
weather  or  foul,  had  he  omitted  to  pray  God's 
blessing  upon  her.  A  fatalism,  which  his  Luke 
Gospel  tenets  did  not  modify,  was  strong  in  the 
sailor.  He  had  seen  death  often  enough  in  his 
business ;  and  his  instincts  told  him,  apart  from 


LYING  PROPHETS  441 

all  religious  teaching,  that  those  who  died  ripe 
for  salvation  were  but  few.  Every  man  ap- 
peared to  be  an  instrument  in  God's  hand,  and 
human  free-will  represented  a  condition  quite 
beyond  the  scope  of  his  intelligence  to  estimate 
or  even  conceive.  Had  any  justified  in  so  doing 
asked  of  him  his  reasons  for  desertion  of  Mary 
Chirgwin,  Noy  would  have  explained  that  when 
inviting  her  to  be  his  wife  he  took  a  wrong  step 
in  darkness ;  that  light  had  since  suddenly  shone 
upon  him,  as  upon  Saul,  and  that  Mary,  choos- 
ing rather  to  remain  outside  the  sure  fold  of 
Luke  Gospeldom,  by  so  doing  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  love  her  longer.  He  would  have 
added  that  the  match  was  doubtless  foredoomed 
according  to  the  arrangements  of  the  Almighty. 

Now  Joe  came  back  to  his  own ;  and  his  heart 
beat  faster  by  several  pulses,  and  his  steps 
quickened  and  lengthened,  as,  through  darkness 
and  rain,  he  sighted  the  lamp-lighted  cottage 
window  of  the  Tregenzas.  Thereupon  he 
stopped  a  moment,  brought  his  bag  to  the 
ground,  mopped  his  forehead,  then,  raising  the 
latch,  strode  straight  into  the  kitchen  without  a 
knock  of  warning.  For  a  moment  he  imagined 
the  room,  lighted  only  by  a  dull  glow  of  fire- 
light, to  be  empty;  but  then,  amid  familiar 
objects,  he  noted  one  not  familiar — a  tall  and 
roomy  armchair.  This  stood  beside  the  fire- 
place, and  in  it  sat  Gray  Michael. 

"Why,  so  'tis!  Mr.  Tregenza  sure  'nough!" 
the  traveler  exclaimed,  setting  down  his  bag 
and  coming  forward  with  hand  outstretched. 


442  LYING    PROPHETS 

"Urn-  I  be  at  last  arter  nine  mouths  o'  salt 
water!  An'  Newlyn  do  smell  pleasant  in  my 
nose  as  I  come  back  to  it,  I  tell  'e!" 

The  other  did  not  take  Joe's  hand ;  he  looked 
up  vaguely,  with  an  open  mouth  and  no  recog- 
nition in  his  expression ;  but  Noy  as  yet  failed 
to  note  how  insanity  had  robbed  the  great  face 
of  its  power,  had  stamped  out  the  strength  of  it, 
had  left  it  a  mindless  vague  of  limp  features. 

"Who  be  you  then?"  asked  Mr.  Tregenza. 

"Why,  blamed  if  you  abbun  forgot  me!  I  be 
Joe — Joe  Noy  corned  back-along  at  last.  My 
ivers!  You,  as  doan't  forget  nothin',  to  forget 
me!  Yet,  maybe,  'tis  the  low  light  of  the  fire 
as  hides  me  from  *e." 

"You'm  a  mariner,  I  reckon?" 

"I  reckon  so,  if  ever  theer  was  wan.  An*  I'll 
be  the  richer  by  a  mate's  ticket  'fore  the  year's 
dead.  But  never  mind  me.  How  be  you  all  — 
all  well?  I  thot  I'd  pop  in  an'  surprise  'e." 

"Cruel  fashion  weather  for  pilchur  fishin'  us 
have  had — cruel  fashion  weather.  I  knawed 
'tweer  comin',  same  as  Noah  knawed  'fore  the 
flood,  'cause  the  Lard  tawld  me.  'Forty  years 
long  was  I  grieved  wi'  this  generation.'  But 
man  tries  the  patience  o'  God  these  days.  We'm 
like  the  Ruan  Yean  men:  'doan't  knaw  an' 
won't  lam.'  ' 

"Ise  fay,  mister,  true  'nough;  but  tell  me 
'bout  'e  all  an' — an'  my  Joan.  She've  been  the 
cherub  aloft  for  me  ever  since  I  strained  my  eyes 
glazin'  for  the  last  peep  o'  Carnwall  when  us 
sailed.  How  be  my  lil  Joan?'1 


LYING    PROPHETS  443 

The  other  started,  sat  up  in  his  chair  and 
gripped  the  left  arm  of  it,  while  his  right  hand 
extended  before  him  and  he  jolted  it  curiously 
with  all  the  fingers  pointing  down. 

"Joan — Joan?  In  hell — ragin',  roastin'  hell — 
screechin',  I  lay,  like  a  cat  in  a  bonfire.  'Tis 
lies  they'll  tell  'e  'bout  her.  She  weern't 
drownded — never.  The  devil  set  sail  'pon  auld 
Chirgwin's  hayrick,  so  they  sez,  an'  her  sailed 
'long  wi'  en.  But  'theer  rings,  they  was  so  high 
that  they  was  dreadful,  an'  theer  rings  weer 
full  o'  eyes  round  about.'  She'm  damned,  my 
son  —  called,  not  chosen.  'The  crop  o'  the 
bunch'  they  called  her — the  crop  o'  the  devil's 
bunch  she  was — no  cheel  o'  my  gettin'.  Her'll 
burn  for  a  million  years  or  better — all  along  o' 
free-traadin'.  Free-traadin'!  curse  'em — why 
doan't  they  call  it  smugglin'  an'  have  done?" 

Joe  Noy  had  fallen  back.  He  forgot  to 
breathe,  then  Nature  performed  the  necessary 
act,  and  in  a  moment  of  the  madman's  silence 
his  listener  sucked  a  long  loud  breath. 

"Oh,  my  gracious  Powers,  what's  fallen  'pon 
en?"  he  groaned  aloud. 

"God's  strong,  but  the  devil's  stronger,  you 
mind.  Us  must  pray  to  the  pit  now.  'Our 
devil  which  art  in  hell'— Ha!  ha!  ha!  He  hears 
fast  enough,  an'  pokes  up  the  black  horns  of  en 
at  the  first  smell  o'  prayer.  Not  but  what  my 
Tom's  aloft,  in  the  main-top  o'  paradise.  I  seed 
en  pass  'pon  a  black  wave  wi'  a  gray  foamiii' 
crest.  An'  the  white  sawl  o'  my  bwoy  went 
mountin'  and  mountin'  in  shape  o'  a  seabird. 


444  LYING   PROPHETS 

Men  diets  hard  in  salt  water,  you  mind.  It 
plays  wi'  'em  like  a  cat  wi'  a  mouse.  But  'tis 
all  wan:  'The  Lard  is  King  an'  sitteth  'tween 
the  cherubims,'  though  the  airth's  twitchin', 
same  as  a  crab  bein'  boiled  alive,  all  the  time." 

Noy  looked  round  him  wildly  and  was  about 
to  leave  the  cottage.  Then  it  struck  him  that 
the  man's  wife  and  daughter  could  not  be  far 
off.  What  blasting  catastrophe  had  robbed  him 
of  his  mind  the  sailor  knew  not;  but  once  as- 
sured of  the  fact  that  Michael  Tregenza  was 
hopelessly  insane,  Noy  lent  no  credit  to  any  of 
his  utterances,  and  of  course  failed  to  dimly 
guess  at  those  facts  upon  which  his  ravings  were 
based.  Indeed  he  heard  little  after  the  first 
rambling  outburst,  for  his  own  thoughts  were 
busy  with  the  problems  of  Tregenza's  fate. 

"Sit  down,  mariner.  I  shan't  sail  till  marnin' 
an'  you'm  welcome.  Theer  be  thots  in  me  so 
deep  as  Levant  mine,  but  I  doan't  speak  'em 
for  anybody's  hearin'.  Joan  weern't  none  o' 
mine,  an*  I  knawed  it,  thanks  be  to  God,  'fore 
ever  she  played  loose.  What  do  'e  think  o'  a 
thousand  pound  for  a  sawl?  Cheap  as  dirt — 
eh?  'Thou  hast  covered  thyself  with  a  cloud 
that  our  prayer  should  not  pass  through.'  Not 
as  prayers  can  save  what's  lost  for  all  eternity 
'fore  'tis  born  into  time.  He  ruined  her;  he 
left  her  wi'  cheel;  but  ban't  likely  the  un- 
born clay  counts.  God  Hisself  edn'  gwaine  to 
damn  a  thing  as  never  drawed  breath.  Who'd 
a  thot  the  like  o'  her  had  got  a  whore's  fore- 
head? An'  tokened  at  that — tokened  to  a  sailor- 


LYING   PROPHETS  445 

man  by  name  o'  Noy.  Let'n  come  home,  let'n 
come  home  an'  call  the  devil  as  did  it  to  his 
account.  Let  the  Lard  see  to't  so  that  man 
edn'  'lowed  to  nourish  no  more.  I  be  tu  auld 
an'  broken  for  any  sich  task.  'For  the  hurt  o* 
the  darter  o'  my  people  I  am  hurt.'  " 

He  spoke  no  more  upon  that  head,  though 
Noy,  now  awake  to  fear  and  horridly  conscious 
that  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  some  tremendous 
ill,  reaching  far  beyond  the  madman,  asked  him 
frantically  what  he  meant.  But  Michael's  mind 
had  wandered  off  the  subject  again. 

"I  seed  en  cast  forth  a  net,  same  as  us  does 
for  macker'l,  but  'twas  sawls,  not  feesh,  they 
dragged  in  the  bwoat;  but  braave  an'  few  of 
'em.  The  devil's  nets  was  the  full  wans, 
'cause — " 

At  this  moment  Thomasin  came  in,  saw  a 
man  by  Mr.  Tregenza,  but  did  not  realize  who 
had  returned  until  she  struck  a  light.  Then, 
approaching,  she  gasped  her  surprise  and  stood 
for  a  moment  dumb,  looking  from  her  husband 
to  the  sailor,  from  the  sailor  back  to  her  hus- 
band. The  horror  on  Noy's  face  frightened  her; 
indeed  he  was  now  strung  to  a  pitch  of  frantic 
excitement.  He  saw  that  the  woman  was  alto- 
gether clad  in  black,  that  her  garments  were 
new,  that  even  her  bonnet  had  a  black  flower  in 
it ;  and,  despite  his  concern,  he  observed  an  ap- 
pearance of  prosperity  about  her,  though  her 
face  belied  it,  for  Mrs.  Tregenza  was  veiy  thin, 
and  far  graj-er  and  older  too  than  when  he  saw 
her  last.  He  took  the  hand  she  stretched  shak- 


446  LYING    PROPHETS 

ing  toward  him;  then  a  question  burst  from  his 
lips. 

"For  God's  sake  speak  an'  tell  ine  the  worst 
on  it.  What  terrible  evil  be  here?  He'm — he'm 
daft  seemin'ly;  he's  spavvk  the  awfulest  mad 
words  as  ever  corned  from  lips.  An'  Joan — 
doan't  'e  say  it — doan't  'e  say  'tis  true  she'm 
dead — not  my  lil  treasure  gone  dead;  an'  me, 
ever  since  I  went,  countin'  the  days  an'  hours 
'gainst  when  I  should  come  back?" 

"Ay,  my  poor  lad,  'tis  true — all  true.  An* 
worse  behind,  Joe.  Hip  an'  thigh  us  be  smitten 
— all  gone  from  us;  my  awnly  wan  drownded 
— my  awn  bwoy;  an'  Michael's  brain  brawk 
down  along  o'  it.  An'  the  bwoat  an'  nets  be 
all  sold;  though,  thanks  to  God,  they  fetched 
good  money.  An'  poor  Joan  tu — 'pon  the  same 
night  as  my  Tom — drownded — hi  the  gert  land- 
flood  up-long." 

Gray  Michael  had  been  mxlding  his  head  and 
smiling  as  each  item  of  the  mournful  category 
was  named.  At  Thomasin's  last  words  he  inter- 
rupted angrily,  and  something  of  the  old,  deep 
tones  of  his  voice  echoed  again. 

"  Tin  a  lie!  Dedn'  I  tell  'e,  wummon, 
'tweeni't  so?  The  devil  took  her — body  an' 
1  >«>m's  an'  unborn  baaby.  They  say  she  was 
found  by  the  meadowsweets;  an'  I  say  'tis  false. 
You  may  groan  an'  you  may  weep  blood,  but 
you  caan't  rhaange  the  things  that  have  hap- 
pened in  time  past  —  no,  nor  more  can  God 
A'migfaty." 

His  wife  looked  to  see  how  Joe  viewed  this 


LYING   PROPHETS  447 

statement.  A  great  local  superstition  was 
growing  up  round  Gray  Michael,  and  his  wild 
utterances  (sometimes  profanely  fearful  beyond 
the  possibility  of  setting  down)  were  listened  to 
greedily  as  inspirations  and  oracles.  Mrs.  Tre- 
genza  herself  became  presently  imbued  with 
something  of  this  morbid  and  ignorant  opinion. 
Her  deep  wounds  time  promised  to  heal  at  the 
first  intention,  and  the  significance  now  attrib- 
uted to  her  insane  husband  grew  to  be  a  source 
of  real  satisfaction  to  her.  She  dispensed  the 
honor  of  interviews  with  Michael  as  one  distrib- 
utes great  gifts. 

The  force  of  circumstances  and  the  futility 
of  fighting  against  fate  impressed  Thomasin 
mightily  now,  as  Noy's  *vild  eyes  asked  the 
question  his  lips  could  not  force  themselves  to 
frame.  She  sighed  and  bent  her  head  and 
turned  her  eyes  away  from  him,  then  spoke 
hurriedly : 

"I  doan't  knaw  how  to  tell  'e,  an'  us  reckoned 
theer  weern't  no  call  to,  an'  us  weern't  gwaine 
to  tell;  but  these  things  be  in  the  Lard's  hand 
an'  theer  edn'  no  hidin'  what  He  means  to  let 
out.  A  sorry,  cruel  home-comin'  for  'e,  Joe. 
Poor  lass,  her's  done  wi'  all  her  troubles  now, 
an'  the  unborn  cheel  tu.  'Tis  very  hard  to 
stand  up  'gainst,  but  the  longest  life's  awnly 
short,  an'  us  ban't  called  'pon  to  live  it  more'n 
wance,  thank  God." 

Here  she  gave  way  to  tears,  and  dried  the 
same  on  a  white  pocket-handkerchief  with  a 
black  border. 


448  LYING   PROPHETS 

"  'Tie  all  so  true  as  gospel,"  declared  Gray 
Michael,  rolling  his  head  round  on  his  neck  and 
laughing.  "An*  my  auld  wummon's  fine  an* 
braave,  edn'  her?  That's  cause  I  cleared  a 
thousan'  pound  in  wan  trip.  Christ  was  aboard, 
an'  He  bid  me  shoot  the  nets  by  munelight  off 
the  islands.  He  do  look  arter  His  awn  somethin* 
butivul,  as  I  tawld  En.  An'  now  I  be  a  feesher 
o'  men,  which  is  better,  an'  high  'mong  the 
salt  o'  the  airth,  bein'  called  to  walk  along 
wi'  James  an'  John  an'  the  rest." 

"He  sits  theer  chitterin',  ding  dong,  ding 
dong,  all  the  wisht  day.  Tom's  death  drove  en 
cracked,  but  'e  ban't  no  trouble,  'cept  at  feedin' 
times.  Besides,  I  keeps  a  paid  servant  girl 
now,"  said  Mrs.  Tregenza. 

Joe  Noy  had  heard  neither  the  man  nor  the 
woman.  From  the  moment  that  he  knew  the 
truth  concerning  Joan  his  own  thoughts  barred 
his  ears  to  all  utterances. 

"Who  weer  it?  Tell  me  the  name.  I  want 
no  more'n  that,"  he  said. 

"  'Tis  Anne  Bundle's  darter,"  answered  Mrs. 
Tregenza,  her  mind  on  her  maid. 

"The  man!"  thundered  Noy,  "the  man  who 
brot  the  thing  about — the  man  what  ruined — O 
God  o'  Hosts,  be  on  my  side  now !  Who  weer 
'e?  Give  me  the  name  of  en.  That's  all  as  I 
wants." 

"Us  doan't  knaw.  You  see,  Joan  was  away 
up  Drift  wi'  the  ChirgwinH,  an'  theer  she  was 
took  when  they  found  her  sirtor  the  drownin'. 
She  never  kuawed  the  true  name  of  en  herself, 


LYING   PROPHETS  449 

poor  dear.  But  'twas  a  paintin'  man — a  artist. 
It  corned  out  arter  as  he'd  made  a  picksher  of 
her,  an'  promised  to  marry  her,  an'  stawl  all 
she'd  got  to  give  'pon  the  strength  of  the  lie. 
Then  theer  was  a  letter — " 

"From  the  man?" 

Mrs.  Tregenza  grew  frightened  at  the  thought 
of  mentioning  the  money,  and  now  adroitly 
changed  the  first  letter  from  Barron,  which  was 
in  her  mind  when  she  spoke,  to  the  second,  which 
Joan  had  received  from  him  on  the  night  of  her 
death. 

"Iss,  from  him;  an'  Mary  Chirgwin  found  it 
'pon  the  dead  frame  o'  the  poor  gal,  but  'twas 
partly  pulp,  along  o'  the  water;  an*  Mary 
burned  it  wi'out  readin'  a  word — so  she  said,  at 
least,  though  that's  difficult  to  credit,  human 
nature  bein'  as  'tis." 

"Then  my  work's  the  harder;  but  I'll  find 
en,  s'elp  me  God,  even  if  us  be  grawed  gray 
afore  we  meet." 

"Think  twice,  Joe;  you  caan't  bring  back 
your  lass,  nor  wash  her  sins  white.  'Tis  tu 
late." 

"No,  not  that,  but  I  can— I'm  in  God's  hand 
for  this.  Us  be  tools,  an'  He  uses  all  for  His 
awn  ends.  I  sees  whereto  I  was  born  now,  an* 
the  future  be  writ  clear  afore  my  eyes.  Thicky 
madman  theer  said  the  word;  an'  I  lay  the 
Lard  put  it  in  en  for  my  better  light.  Er  said 
'Let'n  come  home  an'  call  the  devil  as  did  it  to 
account.'  He  was  thinkin'  o'  me  when  he  said 
it,  though  he  dedn'  knaw  me." 


450  LYING   PROPHETS 

"Iss  fay,  'tis  generally  allowed  he  be  the  lips 
o'  God  A'mighty  now.  But  you,  Joe— doan't 
Je  waste  life  an'  hard-won  money  huntin'  down 
a  damned  man.  Leave  en  to  his  deserts." 

"  'Tis  I  that  be  his  deserts,  wummon — 'tis  I, 
in  the  hand  o'  the  God  o'  Vengeance.  That's 
my  duty  now  standin'  stark  ahead  o'  me.  The 
Lard's  pleased  to  pay  all  my  prayers  an'  good 
livin'  like  this  here.  His  will  be  done,  an'  so  it 
shall  to  the  dregs  of  it;  an'  if  I  be  for  the  pit 
arter  all,  theer's  wan  livin'  as  gaws  along  wi' 
me." 

"That's  worse  than  a  fool's  thot.  Bide  till 
you'm  grawed  cool  anyways.  'Tis  very  hard 
this  fallin'  'pon  a  virtuous  member  like  what 
you  be;  but  'tedn'  a  straange  tale  'tall.  The 
man  was  like  other  men,  I  doubt;  the  maid 
was  like  other  maids.  You  thot  differ'nt.  You 
was  wrong;  an'  you'll  be  wrong  again  to  break 
your  heart  now.  Let  en  go — 'tis  best." 

"Let  en  go!  Blast  en — I'll  let  heaven  go  fust! 
Us'll  see  what  a  wronged  sawl's  patience  can  do 
now.  Us'll  see  what  the  end  of  the  road '11 
shaw !  O  God  o'  the  Righteous,  fester  this  hero 
man's  bones  in  his  body,  an'  eat  his  life  out  of 
en  wi'  fiery  worms!  Tear  his  heartstrings,  God 
o'  Hosts,  rob  en  of  all  he  loves,  stamp  his  foul 
mind  wi'  memories  till  he  shriekn  for  death  an* 
judgment;  punish  his  seed  forever;  turn  his 
prayers  into  swearin';  torture  en,  p  twl 

an'  body  till  you  brings  me  to  en.  Shaw  no 
mercy,  God  o'  Heaven,  but  j>il«-  agony  'pon 
agony  mountains  high  for  en ;  an*  let  mine  be 


LYING   PROPHETS  451 

the  hand  to  send  his  cussed  sawl  to  hell,  for 
Christ's  sake,  Amen!" 

"Oh,  my  Guy  Faux!  theer's  cussin'!  An' 
yet  'tedn'  gwaine  to  do  a  happard*  o'  good;  an* 
you  wouldn'  be  no  happier  for  knawin'  sich  a 
prayer  was  granted,"  said  Thomasin;  but  Gray 
Michael  applauded  the  outburst,  and  his  words 
ended  that  strange  spectacle  of  two  men,  for  the 
time  both  mad. 

"Hallelujah!  Hallelujah!  Braave  prayin'! 
Braave  savor  for  the  Lard's  nose — sweeter  than 
the  blood  o'  beasts.  You'm  a  shinin'  light, 
cap'n — a  trumpet  in  the  battle,  like  the  sound  o' 
the  sea-wind  when  it  begins  to  sting  afore  heavy 
weather,  an'  the  waters  roll  to  the  top  o'  the 
bulwarks  an'  awver.  '  The  snorting  of  his 
horses  was  heard  from  Dan ' — sea-horses  us 
calls  'em  nowadays.  Mount  an'  ride,  mount  an' 
ride!  'Cursed  be  the  man  that  trusteth  in  man,' 
saith  the  Lard ;  but  the  beasts  be  truer,  thanks 
to  the  wickedness  o'  God,  who's  spared  'em  the 
curse  o'  brain  paarts,  but  stricken  man  wi'  a 
mighty  intelligence.  'Twas  a  fine  an'  cruel  act, 
for  the  more  mind  the  more  misery.  'Twas  a 
damned  act  sure  'nough!  Doan't  'e  let  on  'bout 
it,  mate,  but  theer'll  be  clever  surprises  at  Judg- 
ment, an'  the  fust  to  be  damned '11  be  the  God  o' 
the  Hebrews  Hisself  for  givin'  o'  brains  to  weak 
heads.  Then  the  thrawn  o'  heaven'll  stand 
empty — empty — the  plaace  'tween  the  cherubims 
empty;  an'  they'll  call  'pon  me  to  fill  it  so  like's 

*  Happard — Halfpennyworth. 


452  LYING   PROPHETS 

not.     Tarraway,  I  shall  be  named,  same  as  the 
devil  in  the  droll — a  purty  word  enough  tu." 

He  broke  into  laughter,  and  Joe  Noy,  saying 
a  few  hasty  words  to  Thomasin,  departed. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

A  NIGHT  VISIT 

HE  who  less  than  an  hour  before  had  hastened 
hot-footed  through  the  Newlyn  streets,  whose 
habitual  stern  expression  had  softened  before  the 
well-known  sights  and  smells  of  the  gray  vil- 
lage, whose  earnest  soul  was  full  of  happiness 
under  the  rain  of  the  night,  now  turned  back 
upon  his  way  and  skulked  through  the  darkness 
with  a  murderer's  heart  in  him.  The  clear  spec- 
tacle of  his  revenge  blinded  lesser  presentations 
and  even  distracted  his  sorrow.  There  was  no 
space  now  vacant  in  Noy's  brain  to  hold  the  full 
extent  of  his  loss;  and  the  fabric  of  happiness 
which  for  weary  months  on  various  seas  he  had 
been  building  up  in  imagination,  and  which  a 
madman's  word  had  now  sent  spinning  to  chaos, 
yet  remained  curiously  with  him,  as  an  impres- 
sion stamped  by  steadfast  gazing  remains  upon 
the  eye.  It  recurred  as  of  old:  a  joy;  and  not 
till  the  former  emotion  of  happine  ^ain 

and  again  reappeared  to  be  blunted,  as  a  divain, 
at  waking,  by  the  new  knowledge,  did  truth  sink 
into  this  man's  mind  and  become  part  of  memory 


LYING   PROPHETS  453 

Now  he  was  dazed,  as  one  who  has  run  hard  and 
well  to  a  goal,  and  who,  reaching  it,  finds  his 
prize  stolen.  Under  these  circumstances,  Joe 
_Noy's  natural  fatalism— an  instinct  beyond  the 
power  of  any  religion  to  destroy — appeared  in- 
stant and  strong.  Chance  had  now  fed  these 
characteristics,  and  they  grew  gigantic  in  an 
hour.  But  the  religious  habit  made  him  turn 
to  his  Maker  in  this  pass,  and  the  merely  primi- 
tive passions,  which  were  now  breaking  loose 
within  him,  he  regarded  as  the  direct  voices  of 
God.  They  proclaimed  that  solitary  duty  the 
world  still  held  for  him ;  they  marked  out  his 
road  to  the  lurid  end  of  it. 

Thus  Noy's  own  furious  lust  for  revenge  was 
easily  and  naturally  elevated  into  a  mandate 
from  the  Highest — into  a  message  echoed  and 
reiterated  upon  his  ear  by  the  multitudinous 
voices  of  that  wild  night.  The  rain  whispered 
it  on  the  roof-trees,  the  wind  and  sea  thundered 
it ;  out  of  elemental  chaos  the  awful  command 
came,  as  from  primal  lips  which  had  spoken 
since  creation  to  find  at  last  the  ultimate  des- 
tination of  their  message  within  a  human  ear. 
To  Noy,  his  purpose,  not  yet  an  hour  old,  seemed 
ancient  as  eternity,  a  fixed  and  deliberate  im- 
pression which  had  been  stamped  upon  his  mind 
at  a  period  far  earlier  than  his  life  in  time.  For 
one  end  had  he  been  created ;  that  by  some  sud- 
den short  cut  he  should  hurry  to  its  close  a  vile 
life,  fill  up  God's  bitter  curse  upon  this  man,  de- 
stroy the  destroyer,  and  speed  a  black  soul  into 
the  torment  awaiting  it. 


454  LYING   PROPHETS 

Irresolute  and  deep  in  thought  as  to  his  future 
actions,  Joe  Noy  walked  unconsciously  forward. 
He  felt  unequal  to  returning  to  his  home  in 
Mousehole  after  what  he  had  learned  at  New- 
lyn;  and  he  wandered  back,  therefore,  toward 
Penzance.  A  glare  of  gas  lamps  splashed  the 
wet  surface  of  the  parade  with  fire ;  while  below 
him,  against  the  sea  wall,  a  high  tide  spouted 
aud  roared.  Now  and  again,  after  a  heavy 
muffled  thud  of  sea  against  stone,  columns  of 
glimmering,  gray  foam  shot  upward,  like  gi- 
gantic ghosts  out  of  the  water.  For  a  moment 
they  towered  in  the  air,  then,  wind-driven,  swept 
hissing  across  the  black  and  shining  surfaces  of 
the  deserted  parade. 

Noy  stood  here  a  moment,  and  the  cold  wind 
cooled  him,  and  the  riot  and  agony  of  the  sea 
boiling  against  the  granite  face  of  the  break- 
water chimed  with  the  riot  and  agony  of  his 
mind,  whose  hopes  were  now  rent  in  tatters, 
riven,  splintered  and  disannulled  by  chance. 
He  turned  a  moment  where  the  Newlyn  har- 
bor light  flashed  across  the  darkness  to  him. 
From  his  standpoint  he  knew  that  a  line  drawn 
through  that  light  must  fall  upon  the  cottage  of 
the  Tregenzas  beyond  it  on  the  shore,  and,  fix- 
ing his  eyes  where  the  building  lay  hidden,  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  spoke  aloud. 

"May  God  strike  me  blind  and  daft  if  ever  I 
looks  ']><>n  yon  light  an'  yonder  cot  again  till  the 
man  be  dead." 

Then  he  turned,  and  was  about  to  seek  the 
station,  with  a  vague  purpose  to  go  straight  to 


LYING   PROPHETS  455 

London  at  the  earliest  opportunity,  when  a  wis-r 
thought  arrested  this  determination.  He  must 
learn  all  that  it  was  possible  to  learn  concerning 
the  last  days  of  Joan.  Mrs.  Tregenza  had  ex- 
plained her  stepdaughter's  life  at  Drift.  To 
Drift,  therefore,  the  sailor  determined  to  go; 
and  the  stress  upon  his  mind  was  such  that 
even  the  prospect  of  conversation  with  Mary 
Chirgwin  —  a  thing  he  had  certainly  shrunk 
from  under  other  circumstances — caused  him 
no  uneasiness. 

Over  the  last  road  that  Joan  had  ever  walked, 
and  under  similar  conditions  of  night  and  storm, 
he  tramped  up  to  Drift,  entered  through  the  side 
gate,  and  surprised  Mr.  Chirgwin  and  his  niece 
at  their  supper.  As  before  with  the  Tregenzas, 
so  now  again  in  company  of  CTncle  Thomas  and 
Mary,  Joe  Noy  formed  the  third  in  a  trio  of  cu- 
rious significance.  Though  aware  that  the  sailor 
was  due  from  his  voyage,  this  sudden  apparition 
of  him  at  such  a  time  startled  his  former  friends 
not  a  little.  Mary  indeed  was  unnerved  in  a 
manner  foreign  to  her  nature,  and  the  candle- 
lighted  kitchen  whirled  in  her  eyes  as  she  felt 
her  hand  in  his.  Save  for  an  ejaculation  from 
the  old  man,  which  conveyed  nothing  beyond 
his  astonishment,  Noy  was  the  first  to  speak; 
and  his  earliest  words  relieved  the  minds  of  his 
listeners  in  one  great  particular ;  he  already  knew 
the  worst  that  had  happened. 

"I  be  come  from  Newlyn,  from  the  Tregenzas. 
Thomasin  have  tawld  me  of  all  that's  failed  out ; 
but  I  couldn't  bide  in  my  awful  trouble  wi'out 


456  LYING    PROPHETS 

comin'  up-long.  I  reckon  you'll  let  the  past  be 
forgot  now.  I'm  punished  ugly  enough.  You 
seed  her  last,  dead  an'  alive;  you  heard  the  last 
words  ever  she  spoke  to  any  of  her  awn  folks. 
That  drawed  me.  If  I  must  ax  pardon  for  corn- 
in',  then  I  will." 

"Nay,  nay,  my  poor  sawl;  sit  you  down  an' 
eat,  Joe,  an'  take  they  wet  boots  off  a  while. 
Our  hearts  have  bled  for  'e  this  many  days,  Joe 
Noy,  an'  never  niore'n  now." 

"I  thank  you,  uncle;  an'  you,  Mary  Chirgwin 
— will  'e  say  as  much?  'Tis  you  I  wants  to  speak 
with,  'cause  you — you  seed  Joan  arter  'twas 
awver." 

"I  wish  you  well,  Joe  Noy,  an'  if  I  ever  done 
differ'nt  'tis  past  an'  forgot.  What  I  can  tell  'e 
'bout  our  poor  lass,  as  lived  the  end  of  her  days 
along  wi'  me  an'  uncle,  you've  a  right  to  knaw." 

"An'  God  bless  'e  for  sayin'  so.  I  corned 
rough  an'  ready,  an'  thrust  in  'pon  you ;  but  this 
news  be  but  two  hour  auld  in  my  heart,  you  see, 
an'  'tedn'  easy  for  such  as  me  to  make  choice  o' 
words  at  a  time  like  this." 

"Eat,  my  son,  an'  doan't  'e  fancy  theer's  any 
here  but  them  as  be  friends.  Polly  an'  me  seed 
more  o'  Joan  through  her  last  days  than  any ; 
an'  I  do  say  as  she  was  a  lamb  o'  God's  foldirf . 
beyond  all  manner  o'  doubt;  an'  Poll}',  as  fen 
it  mightn't  'sactly  be  so,  be  of  my  'pinion  now. 
Them  as  suffered  for  the  sins  o'  other  folk,  like 
what  she  done,  has  theer  hell-fire  'pon  this  side 
o'  the  graave,  not  t'other." 

"I  lay  that's  n  true  Bayin',"  (Ircl.-uvd   Noy 


LYING   PROPHETS  457 

shortly.  "I  won't  keep  'e  ower-long  from  your 
beds,"  he  added.  "If  you  got  a  drink  o'  spirits 
I'll  thank  you  for  it;  then  I'll  put  a  question  or 
two  to  she— to  Mary  Chirgwin,  if  she'll  allow; 
an'  then  I'll  get  going." 

The  woman  was  self-possessed  again  now, 
although  Joe's  voice  and  well-remembered  gest- 
ures moved  her  powerfully  and  made  it  difficult 
to  keep  her  voice  within  absolute  control. 

"All  you  can  ax  that  I  knaw,  I'll  tell  'e,  though 
Joan  shut  her  thots  purty  close  most  times.  Us 
awnly  got  side  views  of  her  mind,  and  them  not 
often." 

"The  man,"  he  said.  "Tell  me  all— every- 
thin'  you  can  call  home — all  what  her  said  of 
him." 

"Fust  she  thot  a  'mazin'  deal  'bout  en,"  ex- 
plained the  farmer;  "then  time  made  her  mind 
get  stale  of  en,  an'  she  begin  to  see  us  was  right. 
He  sent  money — a  thousand  pound,  an'  I — poor 
fool — thot  Joan  weern't  mistook  at  fust.  But 
'twas  awnly  conscience  money;  an'  now  Thom- 
asin's  the  better  for't  by  will." 

But  this  sensational  statement  was  not  appre- 
ciated, Joe's  mind  being  elsewhere. 

"You  never  heard  the  name  of  en?" 

"Awnly  the  christening  name,  as  was  'Jan.' 
You  may  have  heard  tell  she  got  a  letter  the 
night  she  passed.  Us  found  the  coverin'  under 
the  table  next  day,  an'  Mary  corned  across  the 
letter  itself  in  her  pocket  at  the  last." 

"  'Tis  that  I  be  corned  for.  If  you  could  tell 
so  much  as  a  word  or  two  out  of  it,  Mary?  They 


458  LYING   PROPHETS 

said  you  burned  it  an*  the  crowner  was  mighty 
angry,  but  I  thot  as  p'raps  you'd  looked  at  it  all 
the  same,  awnly  weern't  pleased  to  say  so." 

"No,"  she  answered.  "  'Tis  true  I  found  a 
letter,  an'  I  might  a  read  some  of  it  if  I  would, 
but  I  judged  better  not.  'Tweern't  fair  to  her 
like." 

"Was  theer  anything  else  as  shawed  anything 
'bout  en?" 

"No — awnly  a  picksher  of  a  ship  he  painted 
for  her.  I  burned  that  tu;  an'  I'd  a  burned  his 
money  if  I  could.  He  painted  her — I  knaw  that 
much.  She  tawld  us  wan  night — a  gert  picksher 
near  as  large  as  life.  He  took  it  to  Lunnon — for 
a  shaw,  I  s'pose." 

"I'd  think  of  en  no  more  if  I  was  you,  Joe," 
said  Uncle  Chirgwin.  "Leave  the  likes  of  en 
to  the  God  of  en.  Brace  yourself  agin  this 
sore  onset  an'  pray  to  Heaven  to  forgive  all 
sinners." 

Noy  looked  at  the  old  man  and  his  great  jaw 
seemed  to  spread  laterally  with  his  thought. 

"God  have  gived  the  man  to  me!  that's  why 
I  be  here:  to  knaw  all  any  can  teach  me.  I've 
got  to  be  the  undoin'  o'  that  devil — the  undoin* 
an'  death  of  en.  I'll  be  upsides  wi'  the  man  if 
it  takes  me  fifty  year  to  do  it.  Awnly  'more 
haste,  more  let.'  I  shall  go  slow  an'  sure. 
That's  why  I  corned  here  fust  thing." 

Mr.  Chirgwin  looked  extremely  alarmed,  and 
Mary  spoke. 

"This  be  wild,  wicked  talkin',  Joe  Noy,  an* 
no  mort  o'  sorrer  as  ever  was  can  excuse  sich 


LYING   PROPHETS  459 

words  as  them.  'Tedn'  no  task  o'  yourn  to  take 
the  Lard's  work  out  His  hand  that  way.  He'll 
pay  the  evil-doer  his  just  dues  wi'out  no  help 
from  you." 

"I've  got  a  voice  in  my  ear,  Mary — a  voice 
louder'n  any  human  voice ;  an'  it  bids  me  be  doin' 
as  the  instrument  of  God  A'mighty's  just  rage. 
If  you  can  help  me,  then  I  bid  you  do  it,  if  not, 
let  me  be  away.  Did  you  read  any  o'  that  theer 
letter — so  much  as  a  word,  or  did  'e  larn  wheer 
'twas  writ  from?" 

"If  I  knawed,  I  shouldn't  tell  'e,  not  now.  I'd 
sooner  cut  my  tongue  out  than  aid  'e  'pon  the 
road  you'm  set.  An'  you  a  righteous  thinkin' 
man  wance!" 

He  looked  at  her  and  there  was  that  in  his 
face  which  showed  a  mind  busy  with  time  past. 
His  voice  had  changed  and  his  eyes  softened. 

"I  be  punished  for  much,  Mary  Chirgwin.  I 
be  punished  wi'  loss  an'  wi'  sich  work  put  on 
me  as  may  lead  to  a  terrible  ugly  plaace  at  the 
end.  But  theer  'tis.  Like  the  chisel  in  the 
hand  o'  the  carpenter,  so  I  be  a  sharp  tool  in 
the  Lard's  grip." 

"Never!  You  be  a  poor,  dazed  worm  in  the 
grip  o'  your  awn  evil  thots!  You'm  foxing* 
yourself,  Joe;  you'm  listenin'  to  the  devil  an' 
tellin'  yourself  'tis  God — knawia'  'tedn'  so  all 
the  while.  Theer's  no  religion  as  would  put  you 
in  the  right  wi'  sich  notions  as  them.  Listen  to 
your  awn  small  guidin'  voice,  Joe  Noy;  listen 
to  me,  or  to  Luke  Gosp'lers  or  any  sober-think- 
*  Foxing — Deceiving. 


460  LYING   PROPHETS 

in*,  God-fearin'  sawl.  All  the  world  would  tell 
'e  you  was  wrong — all  the  wisdom  o'  the  airth 
be  agin  you,  let  alone  heaven." 

"If  'twas  any  smaller  thing  I'd  listen  to  'e, 
Mary,  for  I  knaw  you  to  be  a  wise,  strong  wum- 
mon ;  but  theer  ban't  no  mistakin'  the  message 
I  got  down-long  when  they  told  me  what's  fallen 
'pon  Joan  Tregenza.  No  fay;  my  way  be  clear 
afore  me;  an'  the  angel  o'  God  will  lead  my 
footsteps  nearer  an'  nearer  till  I  faace  the  man. 
Wiudin'  ways  or  short  'tis  all  wan  in  the  end, 
'tis  all  set  down  in  the  Book  o'  the  Lard." 

"How  can  the  likes  o'  you  dare  to  up  an'  say 
what  be  in  the  Book  o'  the  Lard,  Joe?"  asked 
Uncle  Chirgwiu,  roused  to  words  by  the  other's 
sentiments.  "You've  got  a  gashly,  bloody- 
minded  fit  on  you  along  of  all  your  troubles. 
But  doan't  'e  let  it  fasten  into  your  heart.  Pray 
to  God  to  wipe  away  these  here  awful  opinions. 
Else  they'll  be  the  ruin  of  'e,  body  an'  sawl.  If 
Luke  Gosp'ling  brot  'e  to  this  pass  in  time  o' 
darkness  an'  tribulation,  'tis  a  cruel  pity  you 
didn't  bide  a  church  member." 

"I  wish  I  thot  you  was  in  the  right,  uncle," 
said  the  sailor  calmly,  "but  I  knaws  you  ban't. 
All  the  hidden  powers  of  the  airth  an'  the 
edn'  gwaine  to  keep  me  from  that  man.  Now 
I'll  leave  'e;  an*  I'm  sorry,  Mary  Chirgwin,  as 
you  caan't  find  it  in  your  heart  to  help  me,  but 
so  the  Lard  wills  it.  I  won't  ax  'e  to  shake  my 
hand,  for  theer'll  be  blood  on  it  sooner  or  later 
— the  damnedest  blood  as  ever  a  angry  God 
called  'pon  wan  o'  His  creatures  to  spill  out." 


LYING   PROPHETS  461 

0 

"Joe,  Joe,  stay  an'  listen  to  me!  For  the 
sake  of  the  past,  listen!" 

But  Noy  rose  as  Mary  cried  these  words,  and 
before  she  had  finished  speaking  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

THE    SEEKING    OF    THE    MAN 

THUS  the  sailor,  Noy,  wholly  imbued  with 
one  idea,  absolutely  convinced  that  to  this  end 
it  had  pleased  Providence  to  give  him  life,  went 
forth  into  the  world  that  he  might  seek  and  slay 
the  seducer  of  Joan.  After  leaving  Drift  he  re- 
turned to  Penzance,  lay  there  that  night,  and 
upon  the  following  morning  began  a  methodical 
visitation  of  the  Newlyn  studios.  Five  he  called 
at  and  to  five  artists  he  stated  something  of  his 
case  in  geDeral  terms;  but  none  of  those  who 
heard  him  were  familiar  with  any  of  the  facts, 
and  none  could  offer  him  either  information  or 
assistance.  Edmund  Murdoch  was  not  in  New- 
lyn, Brady  had  gone  to  Brittany;  but  at  the 
seventh  studio  which  he  visited,  Joe  Noy  sub- 
stantiated some  of  his  facts.  Paul  Tarrant 
chanced  to  be  at  home  and  at  work  when  he 
called ;  and  the  artist  would  have  told  Joe  every- 
thing which  he  wished  to  learn,  but  that  Noy 
was  cautious  and  reserved,  not  guessing  that  he 
stood  before  one  who  knew  his  enemy  and  enter- 
tained no  admiration  for  him. 


462  LYING    PROPHETS 

• 

"Axing  pardon  for  taking  up  any  of  your  time, 
sir,"  he  began,  "but  theer'm  a  matter  concern- 
ing a  party  in  your  business  as  painted  a  maiden 
here,  by  name  o'  Joan  Tregenza.  She  weern't 
nobody — awnly  a  fisherman's  darter,  but  the 
picksher  was  said  to  be  done  in  these  paarts, 
an'  I  thot,  maybe,  you'd  knaw  who  drawed  it." 

Tarrant  had  not  heard  of  Joan's  death,  and, 
indeed,  possessed  no  information  concerning  her, 
save  that  Barren  had  prevailed  upon  the  girl  to 
sit  for  a  portrait.  The  question,  therefore,  struck 
him  as  curious;  and  one  which  he  put  in  return, 
merely  to  satisfy  his  own  curiosity,  impressed 
Joe  in  a  similar  way.  His  suspicious  nature 
took  fright  and  Tarrant's  dark,  bright  eyes 
seemed  to  read  his  secret  and  search  his  soul. 

"Yes,  a  portrait  of  Joan  Tregenza  was  painted 
here  last  spring,  but  not  by  a  Newlyn  man.  How 
does  that  interest  you?" 

"Awnly  sideways.  'Tedn*  nothin'  to  me.  I 
knaws  the  parties  an'  wanted  to  see  the  picksher 
if  theer  weern't  no  objection." 

"That's  impossible,  I  fear,unless  you  go  to  Lon- 
don. I  cannot  help  you  further  than  to  say  the 
artist  lives  there  and  his  picture  is  being  exhibited 
at  an  art  gallery.  Son  id  K  >dy  told  me  that  much ; 
but  which  it  is  I  don't  know." 

This  was  enough  for  Noy.  Ignorant  of  the 
metropolis  or  the  vague  import  of  the  words  "a 
picture  gallery,"  he  <l«>riii«'il  iln-sc  din-ctions  .-im- 
ply sufficient,  ami,  being  anxious  to  escape  further 
questioning,  no\v  Iliaiiknl  Tan-ant  ami  speedily 
departed.  Not  until  half  way  back  again  to  Pen- 


LYING   PROPHETS  463 

zance  did  he  realize  how  slight  was  the  nature  of 
this  information  and  how  ill-calculated  to  bring 
him  to  his  object;  the  man  he  wanted  lived  in 
London  and  had  a  painting  of  Joan  Tregenza  in 
a  picture  gallery  there. 

Yet  upon  these  directions  Joe  Noy  resolved  to 
begin  his  search,  and  as  the  train  anon  bore  him 
away  to  the  field  of  the  great  quest  he  weighed 
the  chances  and  considered  a  course  of  action. 
Allowing  the  ample  margin  of  ten  picture  gal- 
leries to  London,  and  assuming  that  the  portrait 
of  Joan  once  found  would  be  easily  recognized 
by  him,  the  sailor  considered  that  a  fortnight  of 
work  should  bring  him  face  to  face  with  the 
picture.  That  done,  he  imagined  that  it  would 
not  be  difficult  to  learn  the  Dame  and  address  of 
the  painter.  He  had  indeed  asked  Tarrant  this 
question  pointblank,  but  the  artist's  accidental 
curiosity  and  Joe's  own  caution  combined  to  pre- 
vent any  extension  of  the  interview,  or  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  question.  A  word  had  at  least  placed 
him  in  possession  of  John  Barren's  name,  but 
Chance  prevented  it  from  being  spoken,  as 
Chance  had  burned  Barren's  letter  and  pre- 
vented his  name  appearing  at  the  inquest. 
Now  Noy  viewed  the  task  before  him  with 
equanimity.  The  end  was  already  assured, 
for,  in  his  own  opinion,  he  walked  God-guided; 
but  the  means  lay  with  him,  and  he  felt  that 
it  was  his  duty  to  spare  no  pains  or  labors  and 
not  to  hesitate  from  the  terrible  action  marked 
for  him  when  he  should  reach  the  end  of  his 
journey.  Mary's  last  words  came  to  his  ear 


464  LYING    PROPHETS 

like  a  whisper  which  mingled  with  the  jolt  and 
rattle  of  the  railway  train;  but  they  held  no 
power  to  upset  his  purpose  or  force  to  modify 
his  rooted  determination.  Her  image  occupied 
his  thoughts,  however,  for  a  lengthy  period. 
Then,  with  some  effort,  he  banished  it  and  en- 
tered upon  a  calculation  of  ways  and  means, 
estimating  the  capabilities  of  his  money. 

Entering  the  great  hive  to  accomplish  that  as- 
sassination as  he  supposed  both  planned  and  pre- 
destined for  him  before  God  made  the  sun,  Noy 
set  about  his  business  in  a  deliberate  and  care- 
ful manner.  He  hired  a  bedroom  in  a  mean 
street  near  Paddington,  and,  on  the  day  after 
his  arrival  in  London,  purchased  a  large  map 
and  index  of  the  city  which  gave  ample  particu- 
lars of  public  buildings  and  mentioned  the  names 
and  positions  of  the  great  permanent  homes  of 
art.  By  the  help  of  newspaper  advertisements 
he  also  ascertained  where  to  find  some  of  the 
numerous  private  dealers'  galleries  and  likewise 
learned  what  public  annual  exhibitions  chanced 
to  be  at  that  time  open.  Whereupon,  though 
the  circumstance  failed  to  quicken  his  pulse,  he 
discovered  that  the  extent  of  his  labors  would 
prove  far  greater  than  he  at  first  imagined.  He 
made  careful  lists  of  the  places  where  pictures 
were  to  be  seen,  and  the  number  quickly  ran  up 
to  fifty,  sixty,  seventy  exhibitions.  That  he 
would  l>e  able  to  visit  all  theso  Joe  knew  was 
imjKWsible,  but  the  fact  caused  him  no  <li.--<|iii«-t. 
The  picture  he  sought  and  the  name  of  the  in;m 
who  painted  it  must  be  presented  to  him  in  due 


LYING   PROPHETS  465 

season.  For  him  it  only  remained  to  toil  sys- 
tematically at  the  search  and  allow  no  clew  to 
escape  him.  As  for  the  issue,  it  was  with  the 
Lord. 

London  swppt  and  surged  about  Joe  Noy  un- 
heeded. He  cared  for  nothing  but  canvases  and 
the  places  where  they  might  be  seen.  Day  by 
day  he  worked  and  went  early  to  rest,  weary 
and  worn  by  occupation  of  a  nature  so  foreign 
to  his  experience.  Nightly  his  last  act  was  to 
delete  one  or  sometimes  two  of  the  exhibitions 
figured  upon  his  lists.  Thus  a  week  passed  by 
and  he  had  visited  ten  galleries  and  seen  upward 
of  five  thousand  pictures.  Not  one  painting  or 
drawing  of  them  all  was  missed  or  hurried  over; 
he  compared  each  with  its  number  in  the  cata- 
logue, then  studied  it  carefully  to  see  if  any  hint 
or  suggestion  of  Joan  appeared  in  it.  Her  Chris- 
tian name  often  met  his  scrutiny  in  titles,  and 
those  works  thus  designated  he  regarded  with 
greater  attention  than  any  others ;  but  the  week 
passed  fruitlessly,  and  Joe,  making  a  calculation 
at  the  termination  of  it,  discovered  that,  at  his 
present  rate  of  progression,  it  would  be  possible 
to  inspect  no  more  than  half  of  the  galleries  set 
down  before  his  funds  were  exhausted.  The 
knowledge  quickened  his  ingenuity  and  he  dis- 
covered a  means  by  which  future  labors  might 
be  vastly  modified  and  much  time  saved.  He 
already  knew  that  the  man  responsible  for  Joan's 
destruction  was  called  John ;  his  mind  now  quick- 
ened with  the  recollection  of  this  important  fact, 
and  henceforth  he  did  a  thing  which  any  man 


466  LYING    PROPHETS 

less  unintelligent  had  done  from  the  first :  he 
scanned  his  catalogues  without  troubling  about 
the  pictures,  and  only  concerned  himself  with 
those  canvases  whose  painters  had  "John"  for 
their  Christian  names.  He  thanked  God  on  his 
knees  that  the  idea  should  have  entered  his  mind, 
for  his  labors  were  thereby  enormously  light- 
ened. Notwithstanding,  through  ignorance  of 
his  subject,  Joe  wasted  a  great  deal  of  time  and 
money.  Thus  he  visited  the  National  Gallery, 
the  Old  Masters  at  the  Academy  and  various 
dealers'  exhibitions  where  collections  of  the  pict- 
ures of  foreign  men  were  at  that  season  being 
displayed. 

The  brown  sailor  created  some  interest  viewed 
in  an  environment  so  peculiar.  His  picturesque 
face  might  well  have  graced  a  frame  and  looked 
down  upon  the  artistic  throngs  who  swept  among 
the  pictures,  but  the  living  man,  full  of  almost 
tragic  interest  in  what  he  saw,  laboring  along 
catalogue  in  hand,  dead  to  everything  but  the 
art  around  him,  seemed  wholly  out  of  place. 
He  looked  what  he  was :  the  detached  thread  of 
some  story  from  which  the  spectator  only  saw 
this  chapter  broken  away  and  standing  without 
its  context.  Nine  persons  out  of  ten  dismissed 
him  with  a  smile;  but  occasionally  a  thoughtful 
mind  would  view  the  man  and  occupy  itself  with 
the  problem  of  his  affairs.  Such  built  up  imag- 
inary histories  of  him  and  his  actions,  which 
only  resembled  each  other  in  the  quality  «>f  re- 
moteness from  truth. 

Once  it  happened  that  at  a  small  gallery,  oH 


LYING   PROPHETS  467 

Bond  Street,  the  sudden  sight  of  precious  things 
brought  new  emotions  to  Joe  Noy — sentiments 
and  sensations  of  a  sort  more  human  and  more 
natural  than  those  under  which  he  was  at  pres- 
ent pursuing  his  purpose.  Before  this  spectacle, 
suddenly  presented  in  the  quietness  and  loneli- 
ness of  the  little  exhibition,  that  stern  spirit  of 
revenge  which  had  actuated  him  since  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  loss,  and  which,  gripping  his  mind 
like  a  frost  from  the  outset,  had  congested  the 
gentler  emotions  of  sorrow  for  poor  Joan  and 
for  himself — before  this  display  of  a  familiar 
scene,  hallowed  beyond  all  others  in  memory, 
the  man's  relentless  mood  rose  off  his  mind  for 
a  brief  moment  like  a  cloud,  and  he  stood,  with 
aching  heartstrings,  gazing  at  a  great  canvas. 
Sweet  to  him  it  was  as  the  unexpected  face  of 
one  dearly  loved  to  the  wanderer;  and  startling 
in  a  measure  also,  for,  remembering  his  oath,  to 
see  Newlyn  no  more  until  his  enemy  was  dead, 
it  seemed  as  though  the  vow  was  broken  by 
some  miracle  and  that  from  the  heart  of  the 
roaring  city  he  had  magically  plunged  through 
space  to  the  threshold  of  the  home  of  Joan. 

Before  him  loomed  a  picture  like  a  window 
opening  upon  Newlyn.  The  village  lay  there  in 
all  the  flame  and  glory  of  sunset  lights.  The 
gray  and  black  roofs  clustered  up  the  great  dark 
hill  and  the  gloaming  fell  out  of  a  primrose  sky 
over  sea  and  land.  The  waters  twinkled  full  of 
light  to  the  very  foreground  of  the  canvas,  and 
between  the  piers  of  the  harbor  a  fisher-boy  was 
sculling  his  boat.  Between  the  masts  of  stone- 


468  LYING   PROPHETS 

schooners  at  the  quay,  Joe  saw  the  white  cot- 
tage of  the  Tregenzas,  and  there  his  survey 
stopped,  for  at  this  spectacle  thought  broke 
loose.  No  man  ever  paid  a  nobler  tribute  to 
a  good  picture.  Very  long  he  gazed  motionless, 
then,  with  a  great  sigh,  moved  slowly  forward, 
his  eyes  still  turning  back. 

The  day  and  the  experience  which  it  brought 
him  marked  a  considerable  flux  of  new  impres- 
sions in  Joe's  mind — impressions  which,  with- 
out softening  the  rugged  aspect  of  his  determina- 
tion, yet  added  other  lines  of  reflection.  Sorrow 
for  what  was  lost  fastened  upon  him,  and  an  in- 
dignation burned  his  soul  that  such  things  could 
be  in  a  world  designed  and  ordered  by  the  Al- 
mighty. Revenge,  however,  grew  no  less  de- 
sirable in  the  light  of  sorrow.  He  looked  to  it 
more  and  more  eagerly  as  the  only  food  which 
could  lead  to  peace  of  mind.  His  road  probably 
embraced  the  circumstances  of  an  ignominious 
death;  but  none  the  less  peace  would  follow — a 
peace  beyond  the  power  of  future  life  on  earth 
to  supply.  Thus,  at  least,  did  his  project  then 
present  itself  to  him.  Thought  of  the  meeting 
with  his  enemy  grew  to  be  a  luxury  which  he 
feasted  upon  in  the  night  watches  after  fruitless 
days  and  the  investigation  of  endless  miles  of 
pictures.  Then  he  would  lie  awake  and  imagine 
inevitable  climax.  He  saw  himself  standing 
In >fore  the  man  \vh<>  had  mined  two  lives;  he 
felt  his  hand  dose  over  a  knife  or  a  pistol,  and 
wondered  which  it  should  !><•;  in- heard  his«>\vn 

low  and    sti'.-idy,  pronounce   senlenco  of 


LYING   PROPHETS  469 

death,  and  he  saw  terror  light  that  other  man's 
face  as  the  blood  fled  from  it.  He  rehearsed  the 
words  he  should  utter  at  that  great  juncture  and 
speculated  as  to  what  manner  of  answer  would 
come ;  then  the  last  scene  of  all  represented  his 
enemy  stretched  dead  at  his  feet  and  himself 
with  his  hands  linked  in  iron.  There  yet  re- 
mained the  end  of  the  tragedy  for  him — a  spec- 
tacle horrible  enough  in  the  eyes  of  those  still 
left  to  love  him,  but  for  himself  empty  of  terror, 
innocent  of  power  to  alarm.  Clean-living  men 
would  pity  him,  religious  men  would  see  in  him 
an  instrument  used  by  God  to  strike  at  a  sinner. 
His  death  would  probably  bring  some  wanderers 
to  the  fold ;  it  must  of  a  surety  be  long  remem- 
bered as  the  greatest  sermon  lived  and  preached 
by  a  Luke  Gospeler.  Lulled  by  the  humming 
woof  and  warp  of  such  reflections,  his  mind 
nightly  passed  into  the  unconsciousness  of  sleep; 
and  quickened  by  subsequent  visions,  the  brain 
enacted  these  imaginings  with  an  added  gloom 
and  that  tremendous  appearance  of  reality  proper 
to  the  domain  of  dreams. 

Thus  the  days  sped  and  grew  shorter  as  De- 
cember waned.  Then,  at  the  end  of  the  second 
week  of  his  work,  Noy  chanced  to  read  that  an 
Exhibition  at  the  Institute  of  Painters  in  Oils 
was  about  to  close ;  and  not  yet  having  visited 
that  collection  he  set  out  on  the  morning  of  the 
following  day  to  do  so. 


470  LYING   PROPHETS 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 
"  JOB'S  SHIP  " 

ACCORDING  to  his  custom,  Noy  worked 
through  the  exhibition  catalogue  for  each 
room  before  entering  it.  The  hour  was  an 
early  one,  and  but  few  persons  had  as  yet  pene- 
trated to  the  central  part  of  the  gallery.  For 
these,  however,  an  experience  of  a  singular 
character  was  now  in  store.  Wandering  hither 
and  thither  in  groups  and  talking  in  subdued 
voices  after  the  manner  of  persons  in  such  a 
place,  all  were  suddenly  conscious  of  a  loud 
inarticulate  cry.  The  sudden  volume  of  sound 
denoted  mixed  emotions,  but  amazement  and 
grief  were  throned  upon  it,  and  the  exclamation 
came  from  a  man  standing  now  stiff  and  spell- 
bound before  "Joe's  Ship,"  the  famous  master- 
piece of  John  Barron.  The  beholders  viewed  an 
amazed  figure  which  seemed  petrified  even  to  an 
expression  on  his  face.  There  are  countenances 
which  display  the  ordinary  emotions  of  human- 
ity in  a  fashion  unusual  and  peculiar  to  them- 
selves. Thus,  while  the  customary  and  conven- 
tional signs  of  sorrow  are  a  down-drawing  slant 
to  the  corners  of  mouth  and  eye,  yet  it  some- 
times happens  thut  the  lines  more  usually  asso- 
ciated with  gratification  are  donned  in  grief.  Of 
this  freakish  character  was  the  face  of  Joe  Noy. 


LYING   PROPHETS  471 

His  muscles  seemed  to  follow  the  bones  under- 
neath them;  and  now  beholding  him,  the  sur- 
prised spectators  saw  a  man  of  gigantic  propor- 
tions gigantically  moved.  Yet,  while  sorrow  was 
discernible  in  his  voice,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
were  dragged  up  till  his  lips  resembled  a  half- 
moon  on  its  back,  and  the  lids  and  corners  of  his 
eyes  were  full  of  laughter  wrinkles,  while  the 
eyes  themselves  were  starting  and  agonized. 
The  man's  catalogue  had  fallen  to  the  ground ; 
his  hands  were  clinched ;  now,  as  others  watched 
him,  he  came  step  by  step  nearer  to  the  picture. 
To  estimate  the  force  of  the  thing  upon  Noy's 
hungry  heart,  to  present  the  chaos  of  emotions 
which  now  gripped  him  at  the  goal  of  his  pil- 
grimage, is  impossible.  Here,  restored  to  him 
by  art,  was  his  dead  sweetheart,  the  sum  and 
total  of  all  the  beauty  he  had  worshiped  and 
which  for  nearly  a  year  of  absence  had  been  his 
guiding  star.  He  knew  that  she  was  in  her 
grave,  yet  she  stood  before  him  sweet  and  fresh, 
with  the  moisture  of  life  in  her  eyes  and  on  her 
lips.  He  recognized  everything,  to  the  windy 
spot  where  the  gorse  flourished  on  the  crown  of 
the  cliff.  The  clean  sky  told  him  from  whence 
the  wind  blew;  the  gray  gull  above  was  flying 
with  it  upon  slanting  wings.  And  Joan  stood 
below  in  a  blaze  of  sunshine  and  yellow  blossom. 
A  reflection  from  the  corner  of  her  sunbonnet 
brightened  her  face,  though  it  was  shaded  from 
direct  sunlight  by  her  hand ;  her  blue  eyes  mir- 
rored the  sea  and  the  sky ;  and  they  met  Joe's, 
like  a  question.  She  was  looking  away  to  the 


472  LYING   PROPHETS 

edge  of  the  world ;  and  he  knew  from  the  name 
of  the  picture,  which  he  had  read  before  he  saw 
it,  the  object  regarded.  He  glared  on,  and  his 
breath  came  quicker.  The  brown  petticoat  with 
the  black  patch  was  familiar  to  him ;  but  he  had 
never  seen  the  gleam  of  her  white  neck  below 
the  collar  where  it  was  hidden  from  the  sun.  In 
the  picture  an  unfastened  button  showed  this. 
The  rest  he  knew :  her  hair,  turning  at  the  flap- 
ping edge  of  the  sunbonnet;  her  slight  figure, 
round  waist,  and  the  shoes,  whose  strings  he 
had  been  privileged  to  tie  more  than  once. 
Then  he  remembered  her  last  promise:  to  see 
his  ship  go  down  Channel  from  their  old  meet- 
ing-place upon  Gorse  Point;  and  the  memory, 
thus  revived  by  the  actual  spectacle  of  Joan 
Tregenza  looking  her  last  at  his  vanishing  ves- 
sel, brought  the  wild  cry  to  Noy's  lip  with  the 
wringing  of  his  heart.  He  was  absolutely  dead 
to  his  environment,  and  his  long  days  of  silence 
suddenly  ended  in  a  futile  outpouring  of  words 
addressed  to  any  who  might  care  to  listen. 
Passion  surged  to  the  top  of  his  mind — rage  for 
his  loss,  indignation  that  the  unutterably  fail- 
thing  before  them  had  been  blotted  out  of  the 
world  while  he  was  far  away,  without  power  to 
protect  her.  For  a  few  moments  only  was  the 
man  beyond  his  own  self-control,  but  in  that  brief 
time  he  spoke ;  and  his  listeners  enjoyed  a  sensa- 
tion of  a  nature  outside  their  widest  experiences. 

"Oh,  Christ  Jesus!  'tis  Joan— my  awn  HI 
Joan,  as  I  left  her,  as  I  seed  her  alive!" 

He  had  reached  the  rail  separating  the  pict- 


LYING   PROPHETS  473 

ures  from  the  public.  Here  he  stood  and  spoke 
again,  now  conscious  that  there  were  people 
round  about  him. 

"She'm  dead — dead  an'  buried — my  Joan — 
killed  by  the  devil  as  drawed  her  theer  in  that 
picksher.  As  large  as  lif e ;  an'  yet  she'm  under 
ground  wi'  a  brawken  heart.  An'  me,  new- 
comed  off  the  sea,  hears  of  it  fust  thing." 

"It's  'Joe's  Ship'  he  means,"  whispered  some- 
body, and  Noy  heard  him. 

"Iss  fay,  so  'tis,  an'  I  be  Joe — I  talkin'  to  'e; 
an'  she'm  shadin'  her  eyes  theer  to  see  my  ves- 
sel a-sailin'  away  to  furrin  paarts!  'Tis  a  story 
that's  true,  an'  the  God-blasted  limb  what 
drawed  this  knawed  I  was  gone  to  the  ends  o' 
the  airth  outward  bound." 

A  man  from  the  turnstile  came  up  here  and 
inquired  what  was  the  matter.  His  voice  and 
tone  of  authority  brought  the  sailor  back  to  the 
position  he  occupied;  he  restrained  himself, 
therefore,  and  spoke  no  more.  Already  Noy 
feared  that  his  passion  might  have  raised  sus- 
picions, and  now,  turning  and  picking  up  his 
catalogue,  he  made  hasty  departure  before  those 
present  had  opportunity  to  take  much  further 
notice  of  him.  The  man  hurried  off  into  the 
rattle  of  the  busy  thoroughfare,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment he  and  his  sorrows  and  his  deadly  purpose 
had  vanished  away. 

Meantime  the  curator  of  the  gallery,  a  man  of 
intelligence,  improved  the  moment  and  addressed 
some  apposite  reflections  to  those  spectators  who 
still  clustered  around  John  Barren's  picture. 


474  LYING  PROPHETS 

"It  isn't  often  we  get  such  a  sight  as  that. 
Man}'  people  have  wondered  why  this  great 
work  was  called  as  it  is.  The  man  who  has 
gone  explains  it,  and  you  have  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  picture's  history— the  inner  history  of  it. 
The  painting  has  made  a  great  sensation  ever 
since  it  was  first  exhibited,  but  never  such  a 
sensation  as  it  made  to-day." 

"The  beggar  looked  as  though  he  meant  mis- 
chief," said  somebody. 

"He  knows  the  model  is  dead  apparently,  but 
there's  another  mystery  there  too,  for  Mr.  Bar- 
ren himself  isn't  aware  of  the  fact.  He  was 
here  only  the  day  before  yesterday — a  little  pale 
shadow  of  a  man,  like  a  ghost  in  a  fur  coat. 
He  came  to  see  his  picture  and  stopped  ten  min- 
utes. Two  gentlemen  were  with  him,  and  I 
heard  him  say,  in  answer  to  one  of  them  as  he 
left  the  gallery,  that  he  had  quite  recently  en- 
deavored to  learn  some  particulars  of  Joan  Tre- 
genza,  his  model,  but  had  failed  to  do  so  as  yet." 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

THE     FINDING     OF    THE     MAN 

THE  gratification  of  his  desire  and  the  fulfill- 
ment of  his  revenge,  though  steadfastly  foreseen 
by  Joe  Noy  from  the  moment  when  first  he  set 
foot  in  London  and  began  his  search,  now  for  a 
moment  overwhelmed  him  at  the  prospect  of 


LYING   PROPHETS  475 

their  extreme  propinquity.  Had  anything  been 
needed  to  strengthen  his  determination  on  the 
threshold  of  a  meeting  with  Joan's  destroyer,  it 
was  the  startling  vision  of  Joan  herself  from 
which  he  had  just  departed.  No  event  had 
brought  the  magnitude  of  his  loss  more  cruelly 
to  the  core  of  his  heart  than  the  sudden  splendid 
representation  of  what  he  had  left  behind  him 
in  her  innocence  and  beauty ;  and,  for  the  same 
reason,  nothing  could  have  more  thoroughly 
fortified  his  mind  to  the  deed  now  lying  in  his 
immediate  future. 

Noy's  first  act  was  to  turn  again  to  the  gallery 
with  a  purpose  to  inquire  where  John  Barron 
might  be  found;  but  he  recollected  that  many 
picture  catalogues  contained  the  private  addresses 
of  the  exhibitors,  and  accordingly  consulted  the 
list  he  had  brought  with  him.  There  he  found 
the  name  and  also  the  house  in  which  the  owner 
of  it  dwelt — 

JOHN  BARRON, 
No.  6  Melbury  Gardens,  S.  W. 

Only  hours  now  separated  him  from  his  goal, 
and  it  seemed  strange  to  Noy  that  he  should 
have  thus  come  in  sight  of  it  so  suddenly.  But 
his  wits  cooled  and  with  steady  system  he  fol- 
lowed the  path  long  marked  out.  He  stood  and 
looked  in  at  a  gunsmith's  window  for  ten  min- 
utes, then  moved  forward  to  another.  At  the 
shop-fronts  of  cutlers  he  also  dawdled,  but  fi- 
nally returned  to  the  first  establishment  which 
had  attracted  him,  entered,  and,  for  the  sum  of 


476  LYING   PROPHETS 

two  pounds,  purchased  a  small,  five-chambered 
revolver  with  a  box  of  cartridges.  He  then  went 
back  to  his  lodging,  and  set  to  work  to  find  the 
position  of  Melbury  Gardens  upon  his  map.  This 
done  the  man  marked  his  road  to  that  region, 
outlining  with  a  red  chalk  pencil  the  streets 
through  which  he  would  have  to  walk  before 
reaching  it.  Throughout  the  afternoon  he  con- 
tinued his  preparations,  acting  very  methodical- 
ly, and  setting  his  house  in  order  with  the  de- 
liberation of  one  who  knows  that  he  is  going  to 
die,  but  not  immediately.  Sometimes  he  rested 
from  the  labor  of  letter-writing  to  think  and  re- 
hearse again  the  scene  which  was  to  close  that 
day.  A  thousand  times  he  had  already  done 
so;  a  thousand  times  the  imaginary  interview 
had  been  the  last  thought  in  h'is  waking  brain ; 
but  now  the  approach  of  reality  swept  away 
those  unreal  dialogues,  dramatic  entrances,  exits 
and  events  of  the  great  scene  as  he  had  pictured 
it.  The  present  moment  found  Noy's  brain  blank 
as  to  everything  but  the  issue ;  and  he  surprised 
himself  by  discovering  that  his  mind  now  con- 
tinually recurred  to  those  events  which  would 
follow  the  climax,  while  yet  the  death  of  John 
Barron  was  unaccomplished.  Hisactive  thoughts, 
under  conditions  of  such  excitation  as  the  day  hail 
brought  upon  the  top  of  his  discovery,  trawled 
with  astounding  speed,  and  it  was  not  John  Bar- 
ron's  end  but  his  own  which  filial  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  sailor  as  he  wrote.  The  shadow  of 
the  gallows  was  on  the  paper,  though  the  event 
which  was  to  bring  this  consummation  still  lay 


LYING   PROPHETS  477 

some  hours  deep  in  unrecorded  time.  But,  for 
Noy,  John  Barren  was  as  good  as  dead,  and 
himself  as  good  as  under  sentence  of  death. 

Grown  quite  calm,  fixed  in  mind,  and  immov- 
able as  the  black  sea  cliffs  of  his  mother-land,  he 
wrote  steadily  on  until  thought  sped  whirling 
forward  to  a  new  aspect  of  his  future :  the  last. 
He  saw  himself  in  eternity,  tossed  to  everlasting 
flames  by  his  Maker,  as  a  man  tosses  an  empty 
match-box,  after  it  has  done  its  work,  into  the 
fire.  He  put  down  his  pen  and  pictured  it.  The 
terrific  force  of  that  conviction  cannot  fairly  be 
set  before  the  intelligence  of  average  cultured 
people,  because,  whatever  they  profess  to  believe 
in  their  hearts,  the  truth  is  that,  even  with  forty- 
nine  Christians  out  of  fifty,  hell  appears  a  mere 
vague  conceit  meaning  nothing.  They  affirm 
that  they  believe  in  eternal  torment ;  they  con- 
fess all  humanity  is  ripe  for  it ;  but  their  pulses 
are  unquickened  by  the  assertion  or  admission ; 
they  do  not  believe  in  it.  Nor  can  educated 
man  so  believe,  for  that  way  madness  lies,  and 
he  who  dwells  long  and  closely  upon  this  unut- 
terable dogma,  anon  himself  feels  the  first  flick- 
ering of  the  undying  flame.  It  scorches,  not  his 
body,  but  his  brain,  and  a  lunatic  asylum  pres- 
ently shuts  him  from  a  sane  world  unless  medi- 
cal aid  quickly  brings  healthy  relief. 

But  with  primitive  opinions,  narrow  beliefs 
and  narrow  intelligences,  hell  can  be  a  live  con- 
ceit enough.  Among  Luke  Gospelers  and  kin- 
dred sects  there  shall  be  found  such  genuine  fear 
and  such  trembling  as  the  church  called  ortho- 


478  LYING   PROPHETS 

dox  never  knows;  and  to  Noy  the  tremendous 
spectacle  of  his  everlasting  punishment  now 
made  itself  actively  felt.  A  life  beyond  death 
— a  life  to  be  spent  in  one  of  two  places  and  to 
endure  eternally  was  to  Joe  as  certain  as  the 
knowledge  that  he  lived ;  and  that  his  destina- 
tion must  be  determined  by  the  work  yet  lying 
between  him  and  death  appeared  equally  sure. 
Further,  that  work  must  be  performed.  There 
was  no  loophole  of  escape  from  it,  and  had  there 
been  such  he  would  have  blocked  it  against  him- 
self resolutely.  Moreover,  as  the  will  and  desire 
to  do  the  deed  was  an  action  as  definite  in  the 
eye  of  Heaven  as  the  accomplishment  of  the  deed 
itself,  he  reckoned  himself  already  damned.  He 
had  long  since  counted  the  whole  cost,  and  now 
it  only  seemed  more  vast  and  awful  than  upon 
past  surveys  by  reason  of  its  nearer  approach. 
Now  he  speculated  curiously  upon  the  meetings 
which  must  follow  upon  the  world's  dissolution; 
and  wondered  if  those  who  kill  do  ever  meet  and 
hold  converse  in  hell-fire  with  their  victims. 
Then  again  he  fell  to  writing,  and  presently  com- 
pleted letters  to  his  father,  his  mother,  to  Mrs. 
Tregenza  and  to  Mary  Chirgwin.  These  he  left 
in  his  apartment,  and  presently  going  out  into 
the  air,  walked,  with  no  particular  aim,  until 
darkness  fell.  Hunger  now  prompted  him,  and 
he  ate  a  big  meal  at  a  restaurant  md  'hank  with 
his  food  a  pint  of  ale.  Physuvik  fortified,  he 
returned  to  his  lodging,  left  upon  ihc  t.iMe  in 
his  solitary  room  the  sum  In*  would  that  night 
owe  for  the  hire  of  the  chamber,  and,  thru,  tak- 


LYING   PROPHETS  479 

ing  his  letters,  went  out  to  return  no  more.  A 
few  clothes,  a  brush  and  comb  and  a  small 
wooden  trunk  was  all  he  left  behind  him.  Joe 
Noy  purchased  four  stamps  for  his  letters  and 
posted  them.  They  were  written  as  though  the 
murder  of  John  Barren  had  been  already  accom- 
plished, and  he  thus  completed  and  dispatched 
them  before  the  event,  because  he  imagined  that, 
afterward,  the  power  of  communicating  with  his 
parents  or  friends  would  be  denied  him.  That 
they  might  be  spared  the  horror  of  learning  the 
news  through  a  public  source  he  wrote  it  thus, 
and  knew,  as  he  did  so,  that  to  two  of  his  corre- 
spondents the  intelligence  would  come  without 
the  full  force  of  a  novelty.  Thomasin  Tregenza 
and  Mary  Chirgwin  alike  w-ore  familiar  with  his 
intention  at  the  time  of  his  departure,  and  to 
them  he  therefore  wrote  but  briefly;  his  parents, 
on  the  other  hand,  for  all  Joe  knew  to  the  con- 
trary, might  still  be  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  come  off  his  cruise.  His  letters  to  them  were 
accordingly  of  great  length;  and  he  set  forth 
therein  with  the  nervous  lucidity  of  a  meager 
vocabulary  the  nature  of  his  wrongs  and  the  ac- 
tion which  he  had  taken  under  Heaven's  guid- 
ance to  revenge  them.  He  stated  plainly  in  all 
four  of  his  missives  to  Newlyn,  Drift  and  Mouse- 
hole  that  the  artist,  J  ohn  Barren,  was  shot  dead 
by  his  hand  and  that  he  himself  intended  suffer- 
ing the  consequent  punishment  as  became  a  brave 
man  and  the  weapon  of  the  Lord.  These  notes 
then  he  posted,  and  so  went  upon  his  way  that 
he  might  fulfill  to  the  letter  his  writtejr  words. 


480  LYING   PROPHETS 

Following  the  roads  he  had  studied  upon  his 
map  and  committed  to  memory,  Noy  soon  reached 
Melbury  Gardens  and  presently  stood  opposite 
No.  6  and  scanned  it.  The  hour  was  then  ten 
o'clock  and  lights  were  in  some  of  the  windows, 
but  not  many.  Looking  over  the  area  railings, 
the  sailor  saw  four  servants — two  men  and  two 
women— eating  their  supper.  He  noted,  as  a 
singular  circumstance,  that  there  were  wine- 
glasses upon  the  kitchen  table  and  that  they 
held  red  liquor  and  white. 

Noy's  design  was  simple  enough.  He  meant 
to  stand  face  to  face  with  John  Barron,  to  ex- 
plain the  nature  of  the  events  which  had  oc- 
curred, to  tell  him,  what  it  was  possible  he 
might  not  know :  that  Joan  was  dead ;  and  then 
to  inform  him  that  his  own  days  were  numbered. 
Upon  these  words  Joe  designed  to  shoot  the 
other  down  like  a  dog,  and  to  make  absolutely 
certain  of  his  death  by  firing  the  entire  contents 
of  the  revolver.  He  expected  that  a  private  in- 
terview would  be  vouchsafed  to  him  if  he  de- 
sired it;  and  his  intention,  after  his  victim 
should  fall,  was  to  blow  the  man's  brains  out 
at  close  quarters  before  even  those  nearest  at 
hand  could  prevent  it.  At  half -past  ten  Noy 
felt  that  his  weapon  was  in  the  left  breast  pocket 
of  his  coat  ready  for  the  drawing;  then  ascended 
the  steps  which  rose  to  the  front  door  of  John 
Barren's  dwelling  and  rang  the  bell. 

The  man-servant  whom  he  had  seen  through 
tin-  ;iro?i  railings  in  th«»  kitrh»>n  <vmn»  to  the  door, 
:unl,  much  to  Noy's  astonishment,  accosted  him 


LYING   PROPHETS  481 

before  he  had  time  to  say  that  he  wished  to  see 
the  master  of  the  house. 

"You've  come  at  last,  then,"  said  the  man. 

Joe  regarded  him  with  surprise,  then  spoke. 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  John  Barron,  please." 

The  other  laughed,  as  if  this  was  an  admir- 
able jest. 

"I  suppose  you  do,  though  that's  a  queer  way 
to  put  it.  You  talk  as  though  you  had  come  to 
smoke  a  cigar  along  with  him." 

In  growing  amazement  and  suspicion,  Noy 
listened  to  this  most  curious  statement.  Fears 
suddenly  awoke  that,  by  some  mysterious  cir- 
cumstance, Barron  had  learned  of  his  contem- 
plated action  and  was  prepared  for  it.  He 
stopped,  therefore,  looked  about  him  sharply 
to  avoid  any  sudden  surprise,  and  put  a  ques- 
tion to  the  footman. 

"You  spoke  as  though  I  was  wanted,"  he  said. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Blessed  if  you're  not  a  rum  'un!"  answered 
the  man.  "Of  course  you  was  wanted,  else  you 
wouldn't  be  here,  would  you?  You're  not  a 
party  as  calls  promiscuous,  I  should  hope.  Else 
it  would  be  rather  trying  to  delicate  nerves. 
You're  the  gentleman  as  everybody  requires 
some  time,  though  nobody  ever  sends  for  him- 
self." 

Failing  to  gather  the  other's  meaning,  Noy 
only  realized  that  John  Barron  expected  some 
visitor  and  felt,  therefore,  the  more  determined 
to  hasten  his  own  actions.  He  saw  the  footman 
was  endeavoring  to  be  jocose,  and  therefore  hu- 


482  LYING   PROPHETS 

mured  him,  pretending  at  the  same  time  to  be 
the  individual  who  was  expected. 

"You're  a  funny  fellow  and  must  often  make 
your  master  laugh,  I  should  reckon.  Iss,  I  be 
the  chap  what  you  thought  I  was.  An*  I  should 
like  to  see  him — the  guv'nor — at  once  if  he'll 
see  me." 

The  footman  chuckled  again. 

"He'll  see  you  all  right.  He's  been  wantin* 
of  you  all  day,  and  he'd  have  been  that  dread- 
ful disapp'inted  if  you  'adn't  come.  Always 
awful  particular  about  his  clothes,  you  know, 
so  mind  you're  jolly  careful  about  the  measur- 
in',  'cause  this  overcoat  will  have  to  last  him  a 
long  time." 

Taking  his  cue  from  these  words  Noy,  still 
ignorant  of  the  truth,  made  answer:  "Iss,  I'll 
measure  en  all  right.  Wheer  is  he  to?" 

"In  the  studio — there  you  are,  right  ahead. 
Knock  at  that  baize  door  and  then  walk  straight 
in,  'cause  he'll  very  likely  be  too  much  occupied 
to  answer  you.  He's  quite  alone — leastways  I 
believe  so.  I'll  come  back  in  quarter'n  hour; 
and  mind  you  don't  talk  no  secrets  or  tell  him 
how  I  laughed  at  him  behind  his  back,  else  he'd 
give  me  the  sack  for  certain." 

The  man  withdrew,  sniggering  at  his  own 
humor,  and  Noy,  quite  unable  to  see  rhyme  or 
reason  in  his  remarks,  stood  with  an  expression 
of  bewilderment  upon  his  broad  face  and  watched 
the  servant  disappear.  Then  his  coun-tenaiK-.- 
changed,  and  he  approached  a  door  covered  with 
red  baize  at  which  the  passage  terminated.  He 


LYING   PROPHETS  483 

knocked,  waited,  and  knocked  again,  straining 
his  ear  to  hear  the  voice  he  had  labored  so  long 
to  silence.  Then  he  put  his  revolver  into  the 
side  pocket  of  his  coat,  and,  afterward,  follow- 
ing the  footman's  directions,  pushed  open  the 
swing  door,  which  yielded  to  his  hand.  A  cur- 
tain hung  inside  it,  and,  pulling  this  aside,  he 
entered  a  spacious  apartment  with  a  glass  roof. 
But  scanty  light  illuminated  the  studio  from  one 
oil  lamp  which  hung  by  a  chain  from  a  bracket 
in  the  wall,  and  the  rays  of  which  were  much 
dimmed  by  a  red  glass  shade.  Some  easels, 
mostly  empty,  stood  about  the  sides  of  the  great 
chamber ;  here  and  there  on  the  white  walls  were 
sketches  in  charcoal  and  daubs  of  paint.  A  Ger- 
man stove  appeared  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
but  it  was  not  burning ;  skins  of  beasts  scattered 
the  floor;  upon  one  wall  hung  the  "Negresses 
Bathing  at  Tobago."  For  the  rest  the  room 
appeared  empty.  Then,  growing  accustomed  to 
the  dim  red  light,  Noy  made  a  closer  examina- 
tion until  he  caught  sight  of  an  object  which 
made  him  catch  his  breath  violently  and  hurry 
forward.  Under  the  lofty  open  windows  which 
rose  on  the  northern  side  of  the  studio,  remote 
from  all  other  objects,  was  a  couch,  and  upon 
it  lay  a  small,  straight  figure  shrouded  in  white 
sheets  save  for  its  face. 

John  Barron  had  been  dead  twenty-four  hours, 
and  he  had  hastened  his  own  end,  by  a  space  of 
time  impossible  to  determine,  through  leaving 
his  sick-room  two  days  previously,  that  he  might 
visit  the  picture  gallery  wherein  hung  "Joe's 


484  LYING   PROPHETS 

Ship."  It  was  a  step  taken  in  absolute  defiance 
of  his  medical  men.  The  day  of  that  excursion 
had  chanced  to  be  a  very  cold  one,  and  during 
the  night  which  followed  it  John  Barren  broke 
a  blood  vessel  and  precipitated  his  death.  Now, 
in  the  hands  of  hirelings,  without  a  friend  to  put 
one  flower  on  his  breast  or  close  his  dim  eyes, 
the  man  lay  waiting  for  an  undertaker;  and 
while  Joe  Noy  glared  at  him,  unconsciously 
gripping  the  weapon  he  had  brought,  it  seemed 
as  though  the  dead  smiled  under  the  red  flicker 
of  the  lamp — as  though  he  smiled  and  prepared 
to  come  back  into  life  to  answer  this  supreme 
accuser. 

As  by  an  educated  mind  Joe  Noy's  estimate 
and  assurance  of  the  eternal  tortures  of  hell  can- 
not be  adequately  grasped  in  its  full  force,  so 
now  it  is  hard  to  set  forth  with  a  power  suffi- 
ciently luminous  and  terrific  the  effect  of  this 
discovery  upon  him.  He,  the  weapon  of  the  Al- 
mighty, found  his  work  finished  and  the  fruits 
of  his  labors  snatched  from  his  hand.  His  enemy 
had  escaped,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  dead  only 
made  the  case  harder.  Had  Barron  hastened 
from  him  and  avoided  his  revolver,  he  could 
have  suffered  it,  knowing  that  the  end  lay  in 
the  future  at  the  determination  of  God ;  but  now 
the  end  appeared  before  him  accomplished;  and 
it  had  been  attained  without  his  assistance.  His 
labor  was  lost  and  his  longed-for,  prayed-for 
achievement  rendered  impossild.-.  II«  stood 
;m<l  scanned  the  small,  marl>l»'-\vliit»'  fa<v,  then 
drew  a  box  of  matches  from  his  pocket,  lighted 


LYING   PROPHETS  485 

one  and  looked  closer.  Worn  by  disease  to  mere 
skin  and  skull,  there  was  nothing  left  to  suggest 
the  dead  man's  wasted  powers;  and  generation 
of  their  own  destroyers  was  the  only  task  now 
left  for  his  brains.  The  end  of  Noy's  match  fell 
red-hot  on  John  Barren's  face.  Then  he  turned 
as  footsteps  sounded ;  the  curtains  were  moved 
aside  and  the  footman  reappeared,  followed  by 
another  person. 

"Why,  you  wasn't  the  undertaker  after  all!" 
he  explained.  "Did  you  think  the  man  was 
alive?  Good  Lord!  But  you've  found  him 
anyway." 

"Iss,  I  thot  he  was  alive.  I  wanted  to  see 
en  livin'  an'  leave  en — "  he  stopped.  Common 
sense  for  once  had  a  word  with  him  and  con- 
vinced him  of  the  folly  of  saying  anything  now 
concerning  his  frustrated  projects. 

"He  died  night  'fore  last — consumption — and 
he's  left  money  enough  to  build  a  brace  of  iron- 
clads, they  say,  and  never  no  will,  and  not  a 
soul  on  God's  earth  is  there  with  any  legal  claim 
upon  him.  To  tell  the  truth,  we  none  of  us 
never  liked  him." 

"If  you'll  shawme  the  way  out  into  the  street, 
I'll  thank  'e,"  said  Noy.  The  undertaker  was 
already  busy  making  measurements.  Then,  a 
minute  later,  Joe  found  himself  standing  under 
the  sky  again;  and  the  darkness  was  full  of 
laughter  and  of  voices,  of  gibing,  jeering  noises 
in  unseen  throats,  of  rapid  utterances  on  invisible 
tongues.  The  supernatural  things  screamed  into 
his  ears  that  he  was  damned  for  a  wish  and  for 


486  LYING    PROPHETS 

an  intention ;  then  they  shrieked  and  yelled  their 
derision,  and  he  understood  well  enough,  for  the 
point  of  view  was  not  a  new  one.  Given  the  ac- 
complishment of  his  desire,  he  was  prepared  to 
suffer  eternally;  now  eternal  suffering  must  fol- 
low on  a  wish  barren  of  fruit,  and  hell  for  him 
would  be  hell  indeed,  with  no  accomplished  re- 
venge in  memory  to  lessen  the  torment.  When 
the  voices  at  length  died  and  a  clock  struck  one, 
Noy  came  to  himself,  and  realized  that,  in  so  far 
as  the  present  affected  him,  Fate  had  brought 
him  back  to  life  and  liberty  by  a  short  cut. 
Then,  seeing  his  position,  he  asked  himself 
whether  life  was  long  enough  to  make  atone- 
ment and  even  allow  of  ultimate  escape  after 
death.  But  the  fierce  disappointment  which 
beat  upon  his  soul  like  a  recurring  wave,  as 
thought  drifted  back  and  back,  told  him  that 
he  had  fairly  won  hell-fire  and  must  abide  by  it. 

So  thinking,  he  returned  to  his  lodging,  en- 
tered unobserved  and  prowled  the  small  cham- 
ber till  dawn.  By  morning  light  ail  his  life  ap- 
peared transfigured  and  a  ghastly  anti-climax 
faced  the  man.  Presently  he  remembered  the 
letters  he  had  posted  overnight,  and  the  recol- 
lection of  them  brought  with  it  sudden  resolves 
and  a  course  of  action. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  had  reached  Padding- 
ton  Station,  and  was  soon  on  his  way  back  to 
Cornwall. 


LYING   PROPHETS  487 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

STARLIGHT     AND     FROST 

BORN  of  the  sunshine,  on  a  morning  in  late 
December,  gray  ephemerae  danced  and  dipped 
and  fashioned  vanishing  patterns  against  the 
green  of  the  great  laurel  at  the  corner  of  Drift 
farmyard.  The  mildness  of  the  day  had  wak- 
ened them  into  brief  life,  but  even  as  they 
twinkled  their  wings  of  gauze  death  was  abroad. 
A  sky  of  unusual  clearness  crowned  the  Cornish 
moorland,  and  Uncle  Chirgwin,  standing  at  his 
kitchen  door,  already  foretold  frost,  though  the 
morning  was  still  young. 

"The  air's  like  milk  just  now,  sure  'nough, 
an'  'twill  bide  so  till  noon ;  then,  when  the  sun 
begins  to  slope,  the  cold  will  graw  an'  graw  to 
frost.  An'  no  harm  done,  thank  God." 

He  spoke  to  his  nieae,  who  was  in  the  room 
behind  him ;  and  as  he  did  so  a  circumstance  of 
very  unusual  nature  happened.  Two  persons 
reached  the  front  door  of  the  farm  simultane- 
ously, and  a  maid,  answering  the  double  knock, 
returned  a  moment  later  with  two  communica- 
tions, both  for  Mary  Chirgwin. 

"Postman,  he  brot  this  here,  miss,  an'  a  bwoy 
from  Mouzle  brot  t'other." 

The  first  letter  came  from  London,  the  second, 
directed  in  a  similar  hand,  reached  Mary  from 


488  LYING   PROPHETS 

the  adjacent  fishing  hamlet.  She  knew  the  big 
writing  well  enough,  but  showed  no  emotion 
before  the  maid.  In  fact  her  self-command  was 
remarkable,  for  she  put  both  letters  into  her 
pocket  and  made  some  show  of  continuing  her 
labors  for  another  five  minutes  before  departing 
to  her  room  that  she  might  read  the  news  from 
Joe  Noy. 

He,  it  may  be  said,  had  reached  Penzance  by 
the  same  train  which  conveyed  his  various  mis- 
sives, all  posted  too  late  for  the  mail  upon  the 
previous  night.  Thus  he  reached  the  white 
cottage  on  the  cliff  in  time  to  see  Mrs.  Tregeuza 
and  bid  her  destroy  unread  the  letter  she  would 
presently  receive ;  and,  on  returning  to  his  par- 
ent«,  himself  took  from  the  letter-carrier  his 
own  communications  to  them  and  burned  both 
immediately.  He  had  also  dispatched  a  boy  to 
Drift  that  Mary  might  be  warned  as  to  the  let- 
ter she  would  receive  by  the  morning  post,  but 
the  lad,  though  ample  time  was  given  him  to 
reach  Drift  before  the  postman,  loitered  by  the 
way.  Thus  the  letters  had  arrived  simultane- 
ously, and  it  was  quite  an  open  question  which 
the  receiver  of  them  would  open  first. 

Chance  decided:  Mary's  hand,  thrust  hap- 
hazard into  her  pocket,  came  forth  with  Noy's 
epistle  recently  dispatched  from  Mousehole;  ami 
that  she  read,  the  accident  saving  her  at  least 
some  moments  of  bitter  suffering. 

"Dear  Mary,"  wrote  Noy,  "you  will  get  tin's 
by  hand  afore  the  coming  in  of  the  penny  post. 
When  that  comes  in,  there  will  be  another  letter 


LYING   PROPHETS  489 

for  you  from  me,  sent  off  from  London.  It  is 
all  wrong,  so  burn  it,  and  don't  you  read  it  on 
no  account.  Burn  it  to  ashes,  for  theer's  a 
many  reasons  why  you  should.  I  be  coming 
up-long  to  see  you  arter  dinner,  and  if  you  can 
walk  out  in  the  air  with  me  for  a  bit  I'll  thank 
you  so  to  do.  Your  friend,  J.  Noy.  Burn  the 
letter  to  dust  'fore  anything  else.  Don't  let  it 
bide  a  minute  and  doan't  tell  none  you  had  it." 

Curiosity  was  no  part  of  Mary  Chirgwin's 
nature.  Now  she  merely  thanked  Heaven 
which  had  led  to  the  right  letter  and  so  enabled 
her  unconsciously  to  obey  Joe's  urgent  com- 
mand. Then  she  returned  to  the  kitchen,  placed 
his  earlier  communication  in  the  heart  of  the 
fire  and  watched  while  it  blackened,  curled, 
blazed,  and  finally  shuddered  down  into  a  red- 
hot  ash.  She  determined  to  see  him  and  walk 
with  him,  as  he  asked,  if  he  returned  with  clean 
hands.  While  the  letter  which  she  had  read 
neither  proved  nor  disproved  such  a  supposition, 
the  woman  yet  felt  a  secret  and  sure  conviction 
in  her  heart  that  Noy  was  coming  back  innocent 
at  least  of  any  desperate  action.  That  he  was 
in  Cornwall  again  and  a  free  man  appeared  to 
her  proof  sufficient  that  he  had  not  committed 
violence. 

Mary  allowed  her  anxiety  to  interfere  with  no 
duty.  By  three  o'clock  she  was  ready  to  set 
out,  and,  looking  from  her  bedroom  window  as 
she  tied  on  her  hat,  she  saw  Joe  Noy  approach- 
ing up  the  hill.  A  minute  later  she  was  at  the 
door,  and  stood  there  waiting  with  her  eyes  upon 


490  LYING   PROPHETS 

him  as  he  came  up  the  path.  Then  she  looked 
down,  and  to  the  man  it  seemed  as  though  she 
was  gazing  at  his  right  hand  which  held  a  stick. 

"  'Tis  as  it  was,  Mary  Chirgwin — my  hands 
be  white,"  he  said.  "You  needn't  fear,  though 
I  promised  if  you  ever  seed  'em  agin  as  they'd 
be  red.  'Tedn'  so.  I  was  robbed  of  my  hope, 
Mary.  The  Lard  took  Joan  fust ;  then  he  took 
my  revenge  from  me.  His  will  be  done.  The 
man  died  four-an'-twenty  hours  'fore  I  found  en 
— just  four-an'-twenty  HI  hours — that  was  all." 

"Thank  the  Almighty  God  for  it,  Joe,  as  I 
shall  till  the  day  of  my  death.  Never  was  no 
prayer  answered  so  surely  as  mine  for  you." 

"Why,  maybe  I'll  graw  to  thank  God  tu 
when  'tis  farther  to  look  back  'pon.  I  caan't 
feel  'tis  so  yet.  I  caan't  feel  as  he'm  truly 
dead.  An'  yet  'twas  no  lie,  for  I  seed  en, 
an'  stood  'longside  of  en." 

"God's  Hand  be  everywheer  in  it.  Think  if 
I'd  read  poor  Joan's  letter  an'  taw  Id  'e  wheer 
the  man's  plaace  of  livin*  was!" 

"Iss,  then  I'd  have  slain  en.  'Tis  such  lil 
things  do  mark  out  our  paths.  A  gert  pichsher 
o'  Joan  he  drawed — all  done  out  so  large  as  life ; 
an'  I  found  it,  an'  it  'peared  as  if  the  dead  was 
riz  up  again  an'  staring  at  me.  If  'tis  all  the 
saame  to  you,  Mary,  us'll  go  an'  look  'pon  her 
graave  now,  for  I  abbun  seen  it  yet." 

They  walked  in  silence  for  some  hundred 
yards  along  the  lanes  to  Sancreed.  Then  Noy 
spoke  again. 

"How  be  uncle?" 


LYING    PROPHETS  491 

"Betwix'  an'  between.  The  trouble  an'  loss 
o'  Joan  aged  en  cruel,  an'  the  floods  has  brot 
things  to  a  close  pass.  'Twas  the  harder  for  en 
'cause  all  looked  so  more'n  common  healthy  an' 
promisiny  right  up  to  the  rain.  But  he's  got  the 
faith  as  moves  mountains;  he  do  knaw  that 
sorrer  ban't  sent  for  nort." 

"An'  you?  I  wonder  I'm  bowldacious  'nough 
to  look  'e  in  the  faace,  but  sorrer's  not  forgot 
me  neither." 

"  'Tis  a  thing  what  awver-passes  none.  I've 
forgived  'e,  Joe  Noy,  many  a  long  month  past, 
an'  I've  prayed  to  God  to  lead  'e  through  this 
strait,  an'  He  have." 

"  'Tis  main  hard  to  knaw  what  road's  the 
right  wan,  Mary." 

"Iss  fay,  an'  it  is;  an'  harder  yet  to  follow 
'pon  it  when  found." 

"I  judged  as  God  was  leadin'  me  against  this 
here  evil-doer  to  destroy  en." 

"  'Twas  the  devil  misleadin'  'e  an'  takin'  'e 
along  on  his  awn  dance,  till  God  saw,  an'  sent 
death." 

"Thanks  to  your  prayin',  I'll  lay." 

"Thanks  to  the  mightiness  of  His  mercy,  Joe. 
'Twas  the  God  us  worships,  you  mind,  not  Him 
of  the  Luke  Gosp'lers  nor  any  other  'tall. 
Theer's  awnly  wan  real,  livin'  God;  an'  you 
left  Him  for  a  sham." 

"An'  I'm  punished  for't.  Wheer  should  I 
turn  now?  I've  thrawed  awver  your  manner  o' 
worship  an'  I'm  sick  o'  the  Gosp'lers,  for  'twas 
theer  God  as  led  me  to  this  an'  brot  all  my 


492  LYING   PROPHETS 

trouble  *pon  me.  He  caan't  be  no  God  worth 
namin',  else  how  should  He  a  treated  that  poor 
limb,  Michael  Tregenza,  same  as  He  has.  That 
man  had  sweated  for  his  God  day  an'  night  for 
fifty  years.  An'  see  his  reward." 

"Come  back,  come  back  to  the  auld  road 
again,  Joe,  an'  leave  the  ways  o'  God  to  God. 
The  butivul,  braave  thing  'bout  our  road  be  that 
wance  lost  'tedn'  allus  lost.  You  may  get  night- 
foundered  by  the  way,  yet  wi'  the  comin'  o* 
light,  theer's  allus  a  chance  to  make  up  lost 
ground  agin  an'  keep  gwaine  on." 

"A  body  must  b'lieve  in  sometbin',  else  he'm 
a  rudderless  vessel  seemin'ly,  but  wi'  sich  a 
flood  of  'pinions  'bout  the  airth,  how's  wan 
sailorman  to  knaw  what  be  safe  anchorage  and 
what  ban't?" 

Mary  argued  with  him  in  strenuous  fashion 
and  increased  her  vehemence  as  he  showed 
signs  of  yielding.  She  knew  well  enough  that 
religion  was  as  necessary  to  him  in  some  shape 
as  to  herself. 

Already  a  pageant  of  winter  sunset  began  to 
unfold  fantastic  sheaves  of  splendor,  and  over 
the  horizon  line  of  the  western  moors  the  air 
was  wondrously  clear.  It  faded  to  intense  white 
light  where  the  uplands  cut  it,  while,  above,  the 
background  of  the  sky  was  a  pure  beryl  grad- 
ually burning  aloft  into  orange.  Here  waves  of 
fire  beat  over  golden  shores  and  red  clouds  ex- 
tended as  an  army  in  regular  column  upon  col- 
umn. At  the  zenith,  billows  of  scarlet  leaped 
in  feathery  foam  against  a  purple  continent  and 


LYING   PROPHETS  493 

the  flaming  tide  extended  from  reef  to  reef  among 
a  thousand  aerial  bays  and  estuaries  of  alternat- 
ing gloom  and  glow  until  shrouded  and  dimmed 
in  an  orange  tawny  haze  of  infinite  distance.  In 
the  immediate  foreground  of  this  majestic  dis- 
play, like  a  handful  of  rose-leaves  fallen  out  of 
heaven,  small  clouds  floated  directly  downward, 
withering  to  blackness  as  they  neared  the  earth 
and  lost  the  dying  fires.  Beneath  the  splendor 
of  the  sky  the  land  likewise  flamed,  the  winding 
roadways  glimmered,  and  many  pools  and  ditches 
reflected  back  the  circumambient  glory  of  the 
air. 

In  a  few  more  minutes,  Mary  and  Joe  reached 
Sancreed  churchyard  and  soon  stood  beside  the 
grave  of  Joan  Tregenza. 

"The  grass  won't  close  proper  till  the  spring 
come,"  said  Mary;  "then  the  turf  will  grow  an' 
make  it  vitty;  an'  uncle's  gwaine  to  set  up  a 
good  slate  stone  wi'  the  name  an'  date  an'  some 
verses.  I  planted  them  primroses  'long  the  top 
myself.  If  wan  abbun  gone  an'  blossomed  tu!" 

She  stooped  to  pick  a  primrose  and  an  opening 
bud;  but  Joe  stopped  her. 

"Doan't  'e  pluck  'em.  Never  take  no  flowers 
off  of  a  graave.  They'm  all  the  dead  have  got." 

"But  they'll  die,  Joe.  Theer's  frost  bitin'  in  the 
air  already.  They'll  be  withered  come  marnin'. ' ' 

"No  matter  for  that,"  he  said;  "let  'em  bide 
wheer  they  be." 

The  man  was  silent  a  while  as  he  looked  at 
the  mound.  Then  he  spoke  again. 

"Tell  me  about  her.     Talk  'bout  her  doin's 


494  LYING    PROPHETS 

an'  sayin's.  Did  she  forgive  that  man  afore  she 
died  or  dedn*  she?" 

"Iss,  I  reckon  so." 

Mary  mentioned  those  things  best  calculated 
in  her  opinion  to  lighten  the  other's  sorrow.  He 
nodded  from  time  to  time  as  she  spoke, and  walked 
up  and  down  with  his  hands  behind  him.  When 
she  stopped,  he  asked  her  to  tell  him  further 
facts.  Then  the  light  waned  under  the  syca- 
more trees  and  only  a  red  fire  still  touched  their 
topmost  boughs. 

"We'll  go  now,"  Noy  said.  "An*  she  died 
believin'  just  the  same  as  what  you  do — eh, 
Mary?" 

"Uncle's  sure  of  it — positive  sartain  'twas  so." 

"An'  you?" 

"I  pray  that  he  was  right.  Iss  fay,  I've 
grawed  to  b'lieve  truly  our  Joan  was  saved, 
spite  of  all.  I  never  'sactly  understood  her 
thots,  nor  she  mine;  but  she'm  in  heaven  now 
I  do  think." 

"If  bitterness  an'  sorrer  counts  she  should  be. 
An'  you  may  take  it  from  me  she  is.  An'  I'll 
come  back,  tu,  if  I  may  hope  for  awnly  the  low- 
est plaace.  I'll  come  back  an'  walk  along  to 
church  wance  agin  wi'  you,  wance  'fore  I  goes 
back  to  sea.  Will  'e  let  me  do  that,  Mary 
Chirgwin?" 

"I  thank  God  to  hear  you  say  so.  You'm 
welcome  to  come  along  wi'  me  next  Sunday  if 
you  mind  to." 

"An'  now  us'll  go  up  the  Cam  an'  look  out 
'pon  the  land  and  see  the  sun  sink." 


LYING   PROPHETS  495 

They  left  the  churchyard  together,  climbed 
the  neighboring  eminence  and  stood  silently  at 
the  top,  their  faces  to  the  West. 

A  great  pervasive  calm  and  stillness  in  the  air 
heralded  frost.  The  sky  had  grown  strangely 
clear,  and  only  the  rack  and  ruin  of  the  recent 
imposing  display  now  huddled  into  the  arms  of 
night  on  the  eastern  horizon.  The  sun,  quickly 
dropping,  loomed  mighty  and  fiery  red.  Pres- 
ently it  touched  the  horizon,  and  its  progress, 
unappreciated  in  the  sky,  became  accentuated 
by  the  rim  of  the  world.  A  semi-circle  of  fire, 
a  narrowing  segment,  a  splash,  throbbing  like 
a  flame — then  it  had  vanished,  and  light  waned 
until  there  trembled  out  the  radiance  of  a  brief 
after-glow.  Already  the  voices  of  the  frost  be- 
gan to  break  the  earth's  silence.  In  the  dark- 
ness of  woods  it  was  busy  casing  the  damp 
mosses  in  ice,  binding  the  dripping  outlets  of 
hidden  water,  whispering  with  infinitely  deli- 
cate sound  as  it  flung  forth  its  needles,  the 
mother  of  ice,  and  suffered  them  to  spread  like 
tiny  sudden  fingers  on  the  face  of  freezing  water. 
From  the  horizon  the  brightness  of  the  zodiacal 
light  streamed  mysteriously  upward  into  the 
depth  of  heaven,  dimming  the  stars.  But  the 
brightness  of  them  grew  in  splendor  and  bril- 
liancy as  increasing  cold  gripped  the  world;  and 
while  the  stealthy  feet  of  the  frost  raced  and 
tinkled  like  a  fairy  tune,  the  starlight  flashed 
upon  its  magic  silver,  powdered  its  fabrics  with 
light  and  pointed  its  crystal  triumphs  with  fire. 
Thus  starlight  and  frost  fell  upon  the  forest  and 


LYING    PROPHETS 

the  Cornish  moor,  beneath  the  long  avenues  of 
silence,  and  over  all  the  unutterable  blackness 
of  granite  and  dead  heather.  The  earth  slept 
and  dreamed  dreams,  as  the  chain  of  the  cold 
tightened ;  all  the  earth  dreamed  fair  dreams,  in 
night  and  nakedness ;  dreams  such  as  forest  trees 
and  lone  elms,  meadows  and  hills,  moors  and 
valleys,  great  heaths  and  the  waste,  secret  habi- 
tations of  Nature,  one  and  all  do  dream :  of  the 
passing  of  another  winter  and  the  on-coming  of 
another  spring. 


THE   END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


A     000  698  742 


Eia 


